


Chemical

by rabidbinbadger, Witchylana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Canon, Angels, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Creampie, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Demons, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Mystery, Rimming, Road Trips, Switch Castiel, Switch Dean, Thriller, Top Castiel, Top Dean, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, unsafe driving practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 122,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidbinbadger/pseuds/rabidbinbadger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchylana/pseuds/Witchylana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They kiss, and the world doesn’t end. Also, no-one gets punched in the crotch, and nothing swoops down from the skies to backslap Dean and tell him to stop corrupting ex-servants of heaven. All of which seems, y’know, suspiciously too good to be true.</p><p>But they roll with it anyway, and after the kiss there's a hunt, and a holiday, and an epic road trip. There’s Dean and Cas starting to build a relationship together, and Sam learning to knock before he enters absolutely any room at all, YOU ANIMALS.</p><p>And then, just as Dean is starting to inch past his fear of abandonment and trust that things are gonna be okay – that this is a forever deal and not just some interlude between periods of tragedy and loneliness – Cas disappears.</p><p>(Note: Set nebulously around S10, but Charlie is still alive and getting rid of the Mark didn't unleash the Darkness.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of French and Glasgow Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Created for the [2015 DCBB.](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Fic by [rabidbinbadger](http://rabidbinbadger.tumblr.com/), stunning art by [witchylana](http://witchylana.tumblr.com/) and betaing done by [kaligrrrl](http://kaligrrrl.livejournal.com/) who was, once again, an absolute star.
> 
>    
>  **Art notes**  
>     
>  **Fic notes**  
>  Spoilers in the tags is my pet hate so I've tried to keep it vague. If any of those tags sound even slight warnings, please send me a message on my tumblr, [rabidbinbadger](http://rabidbinbadger.tumblr.com/), and I will be more than happy to outline the details around the thing that worries you.
> 
> Thank you to Alana, for pulling some absolutely stunning artwork out of the bag in spite of having a million other time constraints and issues. 
> 
> Thank you to Kate as well for her incredible editing work, for translating from British to American English, taking out several appalling puns, and especially for pointing out that while google might have suggested Oregon as a good place for a beach holiday, google was wrong and I should try somewhere like California instead.
> 
> Leave us a comment, let us know what you think ;D 
> 
> If there's one thing I hate it's shouting into the void. TALK TO ME, GUYS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part title taken from The Verve's song, _[Lucky Man,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MH6TJU0qWoY)_ which, in case you were interested, is the only song I can play on guitar without having the chords in front of me.

**Part 1: Happiness, More or Less**

 

“Okay,” Dean whispers, “I’ll take the roof. Sammy, you go left, Cas, you go right. Take it easy, buddy. It’ll be cool, just like we practised – hack and slash. Wait for my signal and be careful, yeah?”

Cas frowns, whispers irritably, “I’m mortal, not an idiot. I’ve been handling weapons since your lineage began, _Dean_.” He imbues the name with an especially venomous bite.

“That’s not what I meant.” Dean snaps in an undertone. “You’re human now, and not to sound ungrateful, ‘cause I’m not,” he gestures to his right arm, now free of the Mark of Cain – just a puckered, three week old scar to show where it once sat, “but it makes a difference. Your reflexes are slower, you hurt more easily. I just wanna make sure you remember that.”

Cas punches Dean square in the arm, rolls his eyes at his aggrieved expression.

“That quick enough for you?”

Sam waves an impatient hand.

Right, yeah. The vampires.

Dean slaps Sam on the shoulder, goes to do the same to Cas, and instead ends up placing a brief kiss on his cheek before scramming.

Cas freezes, touches two fingers to his face. It’s been three weeks since Dean’s confession. A whispered, “I’m sorry it came to this, Cas. I wish we coulda had something more.” as he sat, chained inside a devil’s trap, on the very edge of demonhood. Three weeks of Cas worrying, wondering whether he meant it. Was it Dean desperately confessing in his last moments as a human, or was he already gone by that point, was it the demon playing its first cruel trick?

Cas knows he should have addressed it, asked Dean if it was him talking, straightened this all out. But he’s spent a lot of time studying in the Winchester school of dealing with your problems. If he doesn’t ask, then Dean isn’t going to tell him to fuck off and leave him alone, that he doesn’t swing that way and that Cas disgusts him or something.

But, well, that’s kind of irrelevant now. It was only a kiss on the cheek, but it’s the confirmation Cas has been grasping for. Dean isn’t a casual, platonic kiss on the cheek kind of guy. And even if he’d suddenly turned into one, he wouldn’t do it just to Cas. He’d have done it to Sam too.

So Cas has his confirmation, and now he wants to grab Dean and kiss him back properly, but he also doesn’t want to get killed by vampires, so he’s going to stow his crap for now. Use this as motivation. He has to do this right, partly to prove that he can, that Dean doesn’t need to worry. Mostly, though, so he can pin him against a wall and show him just how much he’s fantasized about this fucking moment.

 

*

 

Dean retreats and hopes that no-one can see the furious blush on his face. You kissed him on the _cheek._ Fucking smooth, Winchester. How does a fucking manly slap of see you soon please don’t get yourself eviscerated turn into a fucking _kiss on the cheek?_

What is he, fucking French?

 

*

 

Sam has already slipped through the door and now Cas follows at a quick jog, making up for the few lost moments. It’s dark enough that he misses his angelic eyes – if he still had some juice he’d be able to see exactly where he’s going and what to look out for. There’s no point thinking like that, though. It’s not like it’s going to actually get him anywhere.  

Instead of slipping lightly through the darkness, Cas has to slow down to almost a crawl, feel his way carefully around stacks of crates and boxes. He keeps one hand trailed out to the left, dragging his fingertips along rough wood and using it as a guide. The other hand has his angel blade gripped tight; the one relic of his divine past that he clings to, kept for its purpose, not for its history. He has little sentimentality where anything angelic is concerned

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

There’s a thick smell of blood in the air, heavy and cloying. Dean was right; he’s used to having senses far stronger; when he was an angel he’d be able to smell this from three blocks away. Of course, when he was an angel he could just ignore it. Now he has to breathe through his mouth to avoid throwing up.

His hand drags through something warm and sticky and he stills, listening carefully as he brings the offending fingers up close to his eye. His night vision has settled a little, but he still can’t really tell what it is. Can hazard a rough guess, though.

He carries on until he reaches a gap in the crates, crouches down and counts to thirty. Nothing happens so he counts again. Still nothing. There hasn’t been any sign of struggle, no scuffling noises or cries of alarm. What the fuck is Dean doing?

 There’s a brief noise of triumph from above, and then blinding light fills the warehouse as Dean rips off a large section of the corrugated roof. Cas darts forward to where he can see the tangle of vampires curled up to sleep – all now groggily awake and day blinded, burning.

Cas grabs the one closest to him, pulls her up with a little more effort than he’s used to. He feels his muscles twitch and protest, groan a little at the strain, but they don’t fail. He hacks her head off with a clean blow, hears Dean shout out a triumphant whoop. He can’t do much to help the fight up there – the scuffling too close to risk a shot – but he makes up for that by shouting, adding to the noise and pandemonium as he carries on peeling back the corrugated roof to expose the nest to more sunlight. It’s not the most glamorous job, but it helps, and perversely it’s probably more dangerous – no way in hell he’d let Sam or newly human Cas scramble over lichen slippery rooftops and risk a plummet to the death.

Cas drops the dead vamp and dives into the pile again. Some of them are starting to come to their senses now; this is where it all gets dangerous. He finishes another two with a quick hack and slash and then finds himself in a tussle with a big, burly vamp that sparks echoes of Benny in his head. Not that he lets that affect him.

Cas kicks the vampire in the shins – Dean has been schooling him in the art of fighting dirty – and jerks to the side as the vamp tries to get a grip on him. This body might not have concentrated power coursing through its veins anymore, but it has a naturally athletic build, quick and agile. It’s a new way of fighting, but it’s one that he’s taking to well enough. Or so he thinks.

Douche-Benny manages to get a grip on his arm. Cas slashes out at him with the angel blade, but then finds his hand being gripped tight, knuckles pressed until he lets go and his weapon falls to the floor. The vampire grins toothily, fangs slipping out in excitement.

Cas might not be divine anymore, but he still doesn’t smell quite human. There’s enough angel lingering in his veins to make him smell exotic, there’s not enough left to make him seem dangerous.

Cas grits his teeth and headbutts the vampire. It works about as well as should be expected. Douche-Benny is still grinning, and now as well as a fear of impending death, Cas appears to have a concussion. He’s about to die, and he’s most annoyed at the fact that if he does he’s just going to prove Dean fucking right. Jackass.

 _I didn’t even get to kiss his stupid smug fucking face._ Cas thinks.

“You can kiss me later.”

Dean’s grinning face appears, slightly fuzzily, in front of him as the vampire’s decapitated body slides to the ground.

  _And great,_ Cas thinks, _apparently I said that out loud. And now he’s saved my fucking life and I’m never going to hear the end of it. Just leave me to die._

Dean helps Cas over to a corner a little out of the fray. There’s only one vampire left and Sam appears to have the fight relatively under control, so he’s not too worried about leaving him.

“What did I tell you?”

“Don’t you dare.” Cas snaps, blinking slowly.

“Easy, easy.”

Dean holds his right middle finger up, opposite Cas’s nose. Cas squints, wonders why Dean’s dragged him over to the side of the fight just to make rude gestures. “Touch my finger, then your nose, quick as you can.”

“I’m not concussed.” Cas complains.

“Then you can do the test.”

Cas rolls his eyes, touches Dean’s finger and then his own nose.

“Happy?”

“Yup.” He grins. “Next time you want to head-butt a supernatural creature though, maybe just don’t.”

“If I wanted your opinion—”

“You’d ask, yeah, yeah.”

He’s being really fucking annoying, so Cas does the first thing he can think of to shut him up. He kisses him.

Dean jerks back and Cas frowns angrily at him. What, so it’s all right for him, but when Cas tries, suddenly he’s got a problem?

“Uh.”

“Eloquent.” Cas folds his arms.

“I, just, uh…” Dean trails off, clearly hoping Cas will step in and rescue him. He doesn’t.

“Are you sure you’re not concussed?”

“I did your stupid nose test, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but… here? Really?”

“What’s wrong with here? Would you prefer it if I waited, performed some frivolous romantic gesture co-opted from one of your ridiculous soaps?” Cas asks, flippantly.

Dean blushes, honest to god blushes.

 “You actually would, wouldn’t you?”

“No! I just didn’t think we’d be in some dank warehouse, knee deep in vampire guts.”

Cas thinks that knee deep in vampire guts is _the_ most appropriate place for their first kiss, if you measure it against the rest of their lives. It’s not like they spend much time doing other stuff. He senses that voicing that sentiment is not going to help, though.

“I’m sorry for trying to thank you for saving my life.”

“From the pissy look on your face Ifucking doubt that’s what you were doing.”

The pissy look returns to Cas’s face.

“Shit. Okay, man. Can we maybe carry this on back at the motel? Once I’ve cleaned all the blood out of my ears.”

“Fine.” Cas grumbles, slipping away from Dean and back over to where Sam’s standing, arms folded, surveying the heap of dead vampires. He turns around.

“We good to go?”

“I think Dean needs a minute to sulk.”

He gestures to where Dean is, still in the corner, scuffing his shoes and muttering something under his breath.

“What did you do?”

“Who says I did anything?” Cas snaps.

Sam just raises a single eyebrow and Cas fights the urge to roll his eyes. No-one else can take that already quite condescending movement to quite the peak that Sam can. Dean maintains that he rehearses it in front of the mirror, and right now Cas is inclined to agree. Something that bitchy must take practice.

That said, living with Dean probably gives him all the practice he needs.

“I kissed him.”

Sam bursts out laughing.

“Are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“Aw man, you have like, the worst timing, ever.”

Cas folds his arms, engages his death-stare. The one that makes you glad he isn’t an angel anymore, because having all your body parts un-rent is such a nice feeling.

Sam raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“Dude, it’s just. He had some big romantic plan for you tonight, was like, gonna, confess his love and all that sappy shit he pretends to hate, and you go and blow it by kissing him with a concussion in some dump of a warehouse surrounded by dead vampires.”

“I don't have a concussion.” Cas grumbles.

Sam rolls his eyes. Like yeah, Cas, that was the point I meant you to take away from that. Well done.

“And I don’t see how I’ve ruined anything. At least now he knows I’m not going to tell him no.”

Sam laughs again.

“Dude, that is so not the point. He’s so far gone. He wants to treat you to all this baseline human stuff – romantic first dates and nice meals and all. A sweet first kiss with a story that doesn’t feature you wiping viscera off his cheek.”

Cas considers for a moment, then slices through right to the core of the issue.

“He wants me to have a normal human dating experience. Something which, it might be argued, he also hasn’t had.”

 “Exactly.”

“I guess I should go over and apologize then.”

“He’s been shitting bricks over this for the past three weeks, so yeah. Maybe you should.”

Cas pins Sam in a death-squint.

“Did you bully him into this?”

“No! I just reassured him, reminded him that there’s no way in hell you’d tell him to fuck off.”

“Hmm.”

 

*

 

“Dean.”

“Yeah?” He looks up from where he’s scuffed a pattern on the floor. It’s a sigil of some kind, familiar, but Cas can’t place it right now.

“You know that doesn’t count.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t know as much about these things as you, but I thought it was only a kiss if both parties engaged.”

“I-uh. Yeah. That’s true.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up.”

Cas walks away, back to Sam. Because screw him, he likes to have the last word.

They spend the next half hour cleaning the warehouse up. Sam and Dean drag the bodies into the center, pile them up ready to salt and burn. Cas flips on the main light switch and starts to search through the boxes. They’re going to burn them, along with the bodies, and he needs to make sure there isn’t anything too explosive in there.

There’s nothing explosive. There’s plenty fucking gross.

They set it all ablaze and beat a hasty retreat.

 

*

 

“So. Um. After you’ve showered, you might wanna, ah, put on something nice?”

“What kind of nice?”

“Just like, something fancy.”

“I don’t think I—”

“You’ll find something.” Dean blushes furiously.

Sam pulls Cas to the side before he can argue any further, whispers, “Check under your pillow.”

He does, and he finds a pair of nice jeans, button down shirt and a tie. They’re not new, but they’re nicer than any of the ratty jeans, t-shirt and plaid combos he currently has.

“Don’t thank him.” Sam advises. “I think he’d literally die of embarrassment.”

So Cas doesn’t. He just showers, using some of Sam’s fancy products – because Dean’s making a lot of effort for whatever this is, so at least he can try too. He towels his hair dry and gets changed in the bathroom, having been advised by Sam that the sauna effect from the hot shower will smooth out some of the wrinkles in lieu of a working iron.

He steps back into the bedroom, gets a teasing wolf whistle from Sam. Dean just sort of gapes at him, shifts in his seat. It’s a gesture Cas recognises from the time just after Purgatory; he didn’t quite understand it then, but he understands it now. He had a similar reaction only last week when Dean decided to come out of the bathroom almost naked, but for a hand towel wrapped precariously around his waist. He’d blushed, apologized and excused it as the only one left before darting back into the bathroom, duffel of clothes in hand.

“You look good, man.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“So, um. I just need to take a shower, get all the blood and crap off, and then we’ll head out. ‘Kay?”

“Sure.”

Cas settles himself down on his bed – a shitty rollaway bed that is not doing wonders for his back – and picks up his book. He’s slowly working his way through the human classics, is currently on _The Count of Monte Cristo._ Technically he’s experienced it before, but that’s on a whole other scale to actually reading it.

It’s the one thing that makes him glad of his newly human memory. What he used to know spans too much to be contained by Jimmy Novak’s worn, used synapses. Bit by bit, it’s gradually going away.

“Shit! Shit-shit-shit!”

“What, Sam?”

“Cops. Get Dean out the shower, NOW!”

Cas hammers twice on the door and then bursts in.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?” Dean yells from behind the shower curtain.

“Cops. We gotta go, now.”

Cas throws Dean a towel and a pair of jeans, grabs as much of the stuff scattered on the floor as he can and stuffs it into his bag.

“I swear to god, if this is a prank I am going to kill Sam.” Dean snarls as he fights his way out of the shower, still dripping wet but wearing jeans at least.

“It’s not.”

They pile back into the main room. Sam is standing by the window, two packed bags in hand. They travel light for a reason and this is about 70% of it. He chucks one at Dean and, as someone starts thumping on the door, yelling something about the police, they all climb outside.

The Impala is parked a few blocks away – Dean saw the sheer volume of keyed cars in the Red Lagoon motel’s car park and declared that no fucking way was his baby staying anywhere near. They split three ways once they’re out the window, less risk.

Sam and Cas get away clean, meeting at the Impala and starting her up, ready in case Dean shows up with the cops on his tail.

Dean isn’t so lucky. He stayed behind for a few moments, if anyone asked, in order to keep an eye out for Cas and Sam. In actuality because he hasn’t had a chance to put any shoes on, and he doesn’t want to run on gravel with bare feet.

So of course, one of the cops spots him, of course they decide to give pursuit while he’s one shoe on and one shoe off.

He runs straight for a little bit, but it becomes quickly clear that he’s tired as fuck after a long hunt and slightly impaired. He’s not going to be able to outrun these guys straight.

He hares off to the side, down what could be politely described as a crack alley, and throws himself over the chain link fence. He snags his leg on the barbed wire as he goes over, lands awkwardly and painfully. He’s getting too old for this shit. If he doesn’t get arrested that’s it, he’s giving up the life for good, no more hunts and no more cop dodging. He’s going to buy a cat and a house and get a job. Yeah, right. More likely he’s going to live in a fucking cave in the woods and punch deer to death for sustenance, but whatever. Out of the game is out of the game. He hasn’t met a deer yet with fangs and a taste for human blood.

There’s probably still time.

It takes the cops a bit of time to navigate the fence, and that’s the luck he needs. He ignores the pain in his leg, forces himself to run through it; not like this is the first time he’s been injured.

He loops around in a wide circle, runs until he’s sure he’s lost the cops and then runs a little bit more. It’s not paranoia if you’re right. Eventually he slows down to a walk, pulls out his phone and hits the speed dial.

“Sam. I need you to come get me. I had to drop the cops; I’m at—” he squints at the nearest road sign “corner of Main and Oak. Yeah. Cool. Yeah, thanks.”

He hangs up, dresses himself while he waits for his ride.

The Impala shows up so quickly he doesn’t even have time to put on more than one layer – he might as well be shirtless. She slows, but doesn’t stop. Dean opens the door and flings himself in, slams it shut as Sam accelerates and whispers an apology for treating her like this, but they gotta get gone.

Now that the adrenaline and fear are taking a backseat, he’s got another couple of emotions kicking for first place. Frustration, anger. Mainly frustration. One fucking night, that’s all he asked for. One mother fucking night where for once everything about his life wasn’t crap. But no. He doesn’t get that, because he’s Dean fucking Winchester. FUCK.

They only get a handful of miles under their belt before Sam pulls over, chucks Dean the keys.

“I’m beat. Your turn.”

He’s not beat, but he can see Dean practically vibrating out of his skin in the back seat, knows driving will help burn some of it off.

Dean snatches the keys and throws himself into the driver’s seat. He turns up the radio and doesn’t say a word.

Cas waits until Sam’s asleep, then turns it down.

“I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as planned.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not your fucking fault.” Dean’s words are clipped. He’s angry, but he’s trying not to direct that at Cas.

“I know, but still.”

“Should be fucking used to it by now. Our shitty lives.”

“Dean—”

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me.”

Cas sighs, holding onto his patience in for Dean’s sake. This was a big deal for him, a huge deal, and it got wrecked. Of course he’s going to be pissed. But it doesn’t have to end like this.

“Take the next right turn.”

“Why?” The surprise cuts the anger a little.

“Please, just go where I say.”

“Fine.” He huffs.

Cas’s directions take them to steadily wilder and wilder terrain.

“Cas, dude. You’re not taking me to some murder cabin are you? Because man, I’m having a bad day, but not like, _euthanize me_ bad.”

“Just keep driving.”

He does. Cas starts to get a little nervous, what if the place he’s looking for isn’t here, is some corrupted memory, or even worse, something fictional gleaned from Metatron’s pop culture injection – he has trouble telling those apart from the real world, sometimes.

He needn’t worry. He does take them slightly backwards at one point, which Dean notices but doesn’t point out, because Cas has that earnest concentrated look on his face. Turns out not to be such a bad thing either. It means that they park up on the mountainside not that long before sunrise.

Cas grabs a six-pack of beer from the back, cold enough, and settles on the hood. He opens the driver side door, sits himself down on the edge of a precipice, legs dangling over, and beckons for Dean to join him. Dean hesitates for a minute, all the possible safety concerns rushing though his head, and then he settles down next to Cas.

The place they’ve driven to is a remote mountain, whose name Cas doesn’t remember, and Dean never knew. It’s one of the very last wildernesses in the heartland of America. A forest spreads out before them, far as the eye can see. There’s a pounding river somewhere near enough to hear. Apart from that, there are only two sounds. Their breathing, and the first birds of dawn, waking up and starting to sing.

They sit there, feet dangling off the cliff-edge, and they watch the sunrise. At one point Cas notices the proximity of their hands, rests his gently over Dean’s. He waits for Dean to pull away, tell him this isn’t what he imagined. Instead Dean links their fingers together, looks over at him with this sort of bemused but impressed look.

He looks like he’s about to say something self-deprecating, some “wow, this shits all over my plans.” Cas decides he’s not going to give him a chance. He stands up, uses their joined hands to pull Dean up too, and he kisses him.

He dives in, quick and forceful, the only way he knows how. Dean stops him, softens him, takes Cas’s hand from his face and threads their fingers back together. It’s slow and sweet, eyes closed and hands joined. Nothing like the other few kisses Cas has had. He likes it.

Not technically their first kiss, but the one that counts, because it’s the one that they want to. Their lives are pretty shitty, one tragedy after another, so if they want to say their first kiss wasn’t a fumbled bookend to just another day of slaughter, if they decide it’s going to be half-way up a mountain, with the sun rising, birds singing and all that other, clichéd, boring, amazing, romantic shit, that’s when it’s going to be.

 


	2. Sam's Pity Party

Dean untwines their fingers, starts to skate his hands along Cas’s sides, pushes under his outer shirt. Unfortunately he’s wearing the standard Winchester level of layers, so everything’s still very PG.

Dean breaks the kiss.

“So, are you a putting out on the first date kinda guy?”

Cas laughs.

“I suppose it depends on the person.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Cas slips his hand up under Dean’s t-shirt, enjoying the shiver it earns him. He takes this as a sign that Dean wouldn’t mind being divested of a few items of clothing and starts to make that happen, but instead Dean backs away.

 “Uh, maybe we should take this a little further away from the cliff edge?”

Cas sighs, theatrically disappointed, but allows Dean to move him further away, into the trees.

Dean is concerned about safety, yeah, but he’s also trying to get them out of sight of the car. Between falling off a cliff-edge, or Sam seeing him with his hands down Cas’s pants, he literally isn’t sure which he’d prefer.

Okay, he is, but that doesn’t mean he wants to endure all of Sam’s teasing bullshit.

He backs Cas into a tree, kisses him a bit more forcefully now. Cas tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair, yanks at it a little, by accident the first time, again deliberately when he hears the little moan that Dean lets out. He tries to pull off Dean’s shirt again and this time Dean lets him.

It’s summer, so it’s not agonizingly cold, but it is enough that his nipples are already standing to attention. Cas’s gaze lasers in on them, and before Dean knows what’s going on, there’s suddenly hot warm pressure around one of the most sensitive areas of his body. He groans, leans back and nearly falls when he realises there’s just empty space behind him. Cas releases him with a grin, the little shit.

Dean decides there’s far too little of Cas’s flesh on show for his satisfaction, pulls him in for a filthy kiss, nipping and biting at his lip, as he helps him out of his overshirts. They have to break away to get his tee off, but now things are much more even.

Dean drinks in the sight of Cas shirtless. Damn, he’s been holding out. All those ill-fitting suits and layers have been hiding a lithe, toned body. Dean wants to get his mouth over those abs, trace the muscles with his fingers and tongue. Come on his chest and fucking rub it in until they’re sticky and shiny with his jizz.

Woah, there. There’ll be plenty of time for that stuff later.

For now he settles for running his hands over Cas muscled stomach and chest, enjoying the feel of the firm ridges underneath his fingers. He nudges Cas’s head back, mouths under his jaw, licking and nipping as he carries on mapping out the planes of Cas’s chest with his hands.

Cas fists his hands back in Dean’s hair, digs his nails in a little. Dean whines and Cas takes the hint, presses in harder as Dean moves his focus down to snag his teeth on one of Cas’s nipples. He moans, digs his fingers even harder into Dean’s scalp. Dean laves his tongue over the bite mark he left, soothes it as he reaches down to Cas’s crotch. He unzips him, shoves his pants and underwear down and laughs at the awkward little shimmy he does to kick them off, out of the way.

Dean closes his hand around Cas’s cock, works it slowly up to full hardness with tender, careful strokes. Cas groans under his touch, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Dean can’t help but grin at the sight of him; if he thinks he’s enjoying this, man, he doesn’t even know.

Dean drops down to his knees, sizes up the thick, hard cock in front of him. He’s going to fucking enjoy this. Cas is packing some pretty serious heat, not that it’d be a deal breaker if he was on the smaller side or anything, but, damn, there’s just something Dean loves about a big, fat cock.

 He grabs hold of Cas’s muscled thighs, distantly registering the power in them and running through a mental rolodex of awesome uses that strength could be put to. 

And then he lunges forward, sealing his lips around Cas’s cock. Cas groans, thrusts forward abortively, realises what he’s done and tries to apologize, hold himself in check. Dean grins up at him, uses his grip on Cas’s thighs to pull him forward, takes him as deep as he can, throat fluttering around the head of Cas’s cock.

Cas’s hands, which had been hovering awkwardly by his sides since Dean dropped to the ground, begin to twitch. Dean grabs them, brings one down to his face, so Cas can feel the shape of his cock in Dean’s mouth, settles the other in his hair.

Cas tightens his grip, and Dean hums his appreciation, knowing exactly the effect it’ll have. He isn’t disappointed. Cas draws in a sharp breath, thrusts forward again, shallow and then deeper. Dean grips his ass, kneads it gently and then pulls it forwards and back, encourages Cas to fuck into his mouth with a punishing rhythm.

Dean’s own cock bobs heavy between his legs, but he can ignore it for now. He’s got more important things to focus on. He pulls off Cas a little, so the swollen head of his cock is resting on his tongue. He goes to town on it, earning a yell from Cas that comes with a just the right side of painful tug on his hair.

“Dean, I’m gonna—”

Dean pulls off, takes Cas’s cock in his hands, aims it at his face and gives it a few quick tugs. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth slightly, panting a little in anticipation. Cas drinks in the sight hungrily, tips over the edge and comes with a rough shout.

Dean keeps hold of him with one hand, pushes his free hand down his pants, jacks himself roughly as he paints his lips and chin with Cas’s come.

Cas finishes, reaches down and pulls Dean to his feet, licks the stringy beads of his own come off Dean’s face and kisses them into his mouth. Dean groans again, so close, fucking soaring but still not quite there, and Cas knocks his hand out of the way, shoves his jeans down and pumps him furiously until he lets go with a howl, biting down on the meat of Cas’s shoulder to muffle it.

They cling to each other, panting, strung out and satiated, until they start to shiver. It might be a mild morning, but they’re mostly naked and both covered in drying sweat. Dean still has jizz on his face, and Cas has some on his hands too. He licks it off his finger. Dean’s tastes slightly different than his own, sharper. He’s not sure whether he prefers the taste or not. He’s clearly going to have to do some more experimenting.

He swipes his fingers through the remaining mess on Dean’s face, gathers up as much of it as he can with a grin. He uses his other hand to lever Dean’s jaw open, sticks his fingers into his mouth. Dean’s tongue curls around him in much the same way it caressed his cock earlier. He groans a little when Cas withdraws his fingers, spit slick, wipes them on his thigh.

“If you’re angling for round two, you can forget it. I’m about fifteen years too old for that shit.”

Cas laughs, starts picking up their clothes from the floor.

“It’s times like this I miss being an angel.”

Dean snortlaughs.

“Oh yeah? What, you’d mojo us both back up to speed and we’d keep going all night?”

Cas squints at him, poker faced.

“What? No. Time travel. I’d go fetch myself the younger model.”

Dean splutters.

“Du-dude! We’ve been going out for like, an hour, and you’re already joking about replacing me.”

Cas shrugs, grinning like the little shit he is. Dean shoves at him and he overbalances. Dean laughs, until he realises that Cas has his shirt in hand and is holding it threateningly over a patch of mud on the ground.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“Please don’t?”

“Help me up, then.”

He reaches out his hand and, of course, Cas doesn’t get up. He pulls Dean into the dirt next to him.

“You’re such a jackass.”

“I’m your jackass now.”

“This was only a first date. Just how fast are you trying to take this?”

“You have my come crusted on your face.”

“People have hook-ups.”

“In that case I’ll spare you the embarrassment of having to turf me out of your, uh, ‘bed’ and take off now, shall I?”

He stands up and Dean pouts at him, abandoned.

“I’m getting our clothes, unless you want your cock to get frostbite and fall off?”

Dean squirms, pinches his legs together.

“Dude.”

They re-dress quickly. Dean makes to walk back to the car but Cas stops him.

“There’s still some jizz on your face.”

Dean reaches up, touches the crusted white mess still on one cheek.

“Hey, your mess. You deal with it.”

Cas does deal with it, with his tongue.

It takes them a while to get back to the Impala.

 

*

 

However far away Dean thought far away enough was, he was wrong. Sam is hunched over under his jacket, singing under his breath, knocking his elbows on the metal of the interior, anything that makes noise. God, he wishes he could turn on the radio, but he can’t risk it. If he drains the battery they are fucked. He’s getting to the point where it’d be worth it though, anything to drown out the noises he can hear from the treeline.

He already knew what Dean sounds like when he comes. He’s been sharing motel rooms with him for far too long, and Dean is a disgusting human being. But now, well. He’s never going to be able to look Cas in the eye again.

And of course, to top it off, he also has a kink it his spine the size of the observable universe from sleeping in the back seat of the car. Fantastic.

 

*

 

Cas and Dean wander back to the cliff-edge. Dean leans over to take a peek inside the Impala, but Sam’s still out for the count – coat pulled over his head. He’s gonna get a crick in his neck from sleeping like that, but whatever, he’s a grownup. If they wake him up he’ll just be pissy, anyway.

They settle back by the cliff, grab a beer each and pop them open. Dean gulps half of his down in record time with a sigh of satisfaction. Cas sips his down in more measured fashion, grimacing with every pull.

“Are you sure I’ll get used to the taste?”

“Promise.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t have to drink it, save it for the people who actually appreciate it.”

“I want to see what the big deal is, now that I _can_ actually appreciate it.”

“I’mma get you _druunk_.”

“I look forward to seeing what the fuss is all about.”

“I thought you did before – during the apocalypse.”

 Dean snorts, welcome to his life, casual memories from the end of days.

“I don’t really remember it.”

“Yeah, it’ll do that.”

Cas lies down, settles his head on Dean’s lap. He knows couples do this in films and books, it seems like it might be enjoyable. Dean works his fingers into Cas’s hair, starts massaging gentle circles. That is definitely enjoyable. He closes his eyes, utterly relaxed in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. Maybe never. He’s been a warrior since the day he came into existence.

He and Dean almost have that in common. Dean at least got four years of childhood. Maybe Cas is more like Sam, who was practically born into his father’s revenge crusade. That said, it seems like Sam got the slightly kinder end of it, was allowed a lot more lenience, leeway. Freedom to be a real child. Maybe that’s just an outsider’s impression, though. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually know everything about the Winchesters’ life up until the point he met them. Only what heaven and the brothers themselves chose to share with him.

“You beat?”

“Just getting comfortable.”

He tries to take a slurp from the bottle. Most of it ends up dribbled on his chest and Dean’s legs. And Dean doesn’t even complain, much.

“It goes in your mouth, Cas.”

“It’ll go in your crotch if you’re not careful.”

Dean firms his grip in Cas’s hair, shakes his head from side to side playfully. Cas scowls up at him, presses his head heavily down into Dean’s crotch, makes him yelp.

“Not cool!”

They hear a car door slam and Sam stumbles out of the Impala, looking tired and mildly traumatised. Dean wordlessly hands him a beer and he sits down, near enough to talk but far enough away not to intrude.

They stay in silence for a while. Dean carries on carding his fingers through Cas’s hair and Cas hums appreciatively. He carries on sipping at his beer, getting most of it in his mouth now. The more he drinks, the better it tastes. He enjoys the sensations, the warm, slightly thick feeling it leaves on his tongue, the comfortable buzz in his head.

He’s halfway through his second now and he can’t help a wide, goofy grin from spreading across his face. He reaches up, hands cupping Dean’s face. Dean laughs, grasps his wrists gently.

“ _You_ are drunk.”

“Not.”

“You fucking are, y’liar.”

He tries to swat at Dean’s face, is stopped by Dean tightening his grip. He glares his best smiting glare, but Dean doesn’t relent.

Sam doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or pleased for them. Well, no, he’s currently disgusted with them. He’ll be pleased for them when he’s had a few hours of sleep in an actual bed. He’s not going to ruin what is clearly a fucking “moment” though, by demanding they head home. He’s not staying folded up in the fucking car though.

He sips his own beer, dangles his feet over the edge of the cliff and looks at the view. It’s nice, romantic. And Dean seems in a much better mood than when he went to sleep. It’s a good sign, that Cas already knows how to diffuse him, calm him and round out his abrasive edges. They’re going to be good for each other, he can see it already.

God, it’s going to be fucking sickening.


	3. Road Safety 101

Cas’s eyes drift closed and Dean can feel himself following.

“You ‘kay to drive?” He asks Sam.

Sam nods, offers the rest of his mostly full bottle to Dean. He accepts it, balances it precariously on the ground next to him and then nudges at Cas.

“Hey, buddy, we’re gonna head out.” Cas doesn’t react at all so he carries on. “Sam said he’ll drive, so we can sleep in the back of the car.”

Cas mumbles some vaguely assenting noise, but he still doesn’t open his eyes or make any effort at all to move.

Dean sighs, considers just upending his beer over Cas’s stubborn, lazy head. He doesn’t, because he’s a nice person. Also because it’s Cas, with a vindictive streak a mile wide and a unique kind of tactical genius, so fuck knows what kind of twisted revenge he’d have to look out for. Plus he’s planning on sleeping in the back with him – two people can lie down on the Impala’s backseat, albeit snugly – and he doesn’t want to be intimately pressed up against a dude who’s soaking wet and reeking of stale beer.

So instead of being a dick he fits his arms under Cas’s back and legs and carries him to the car. Cas grunts something vaguely triumphant sounding and that’s just a step too far. Dean pinches the back of his knee. His left eye opens a crack and Dean has to stifle a laugh. It’s the exact same look his first high school squeeze’s cat used to give him when he accidentally woke it up climbing into her room at ass o’clock in the morning.

He lays Cas out in the back seat of the car and the little shit immediately protests.

“Cold.” He mumbles, both eyes now slightly open.

“Gimme two fucking seconds you impatient shit.”

Dean snags his beer from the grass and chugs it down, burps loudly and grins at the disgusted look Sam throws him from the front seat. He shrugs exaggeratedly, waste not want not and all that crap, and wanders back over to the car.

“You sure you don’t mind driving us, Sammy?”

Sam snorts.

“Go fucking cuddle to your hearts’ content. But if I hear a _single_ gross sex noise I swear to god I am driving this car off a cliff with us all still in it.”

“I promise you won’t _hear_ anything.” Dean grins his shittiest grin.

“Not what I fucking meant!” Sam yells as Dean smirks and slips around to the back of the car.

Cas is sitting up now, looking adorably tired and grumpy.

Dean kicks his shoes off into the foot well and manhandles a protesting Cas out of the way as he lies down across the seat. He gets himself comfy and then pulls Cas back down, so that he’s mostly on top of Dean.

“See, now you get my body heat instead of the cold leather.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, just squirms, all elbows and ribs and fucking knees, like he’s trying to punch Dean into a suitable pillow shape. Eventually he finds a position that suits him. It’s slightly less ideal for Dean, but he just rolls with it.

He’s slept in far less comfortable places. And there’s something reassuring about the solid weight of Cas above him, knowing that he’s still here, that even if this didn’t go at all like Dean planned, it still went well. Cas likes him enough to kiss him, enough to put up with Dean’s temper tantrum and try and salvage his ruined plan. Enough to stay.

He runs his hand along Cas’s side. He grunts, tries to bury his head in Dean’s shirt, like he wants to burrow down in there and never come back out.

“Less touching, more sleeping.” He mumbles.

Dean snorts, settles his hands and closes his eyes. The alcohol hums pleasantly through him, he can feel Cas’s body pressed length to length up against his, and there’s the comforting rumble of Baby surrounding him as Sam starts her up and they begin to drive. He could get used to this.

 

*

 

Dean wakes the instant the car stops – it’s coded into him by now, after so many years. He’s got a dead arm and a kink in his back. He tries to shift, adjust himself subtly without waking Cas.

Either he feels Dean’s movement or he’s already awake, because he stretches above him, mumbles, “Is that a canoe in your pocket?” – a reference, Dean knows, but can’t place, and then sits upright, pushing Dean’s legs out of the way so he can settle on the seat.

Dean groans with relief and sits up as well. He has an epic case of morning wood and he is absolutely bursting for a piss. Neither is much of a surprise. Beer always goes right through him, and then he slept pressed right up and close against a guy he’s been fantasizing about for longer than is probably healthy.

Dean flicks a quick, subtle glance across at Cas’s crotch – forgetting that he’s probably allowed to do that more openly now – and ascertains that he’s in a similar state. It’s a shame, ‘cause if Sam wasn’t sitting in the front seat, looking very wide awake and likely to notice and get pissed, they could get some nice reciprocal morning hand-jobs going. 

“I’m taking a leak and then it’s someone else’s turn to drive – assuming at least one of you is sober?”

Dean looks around. They’re at a gas station with a little diner attached. That means toilets, which also means potential cubical quickie.

Look. He’s human, and he’s been dreaming about this for a long time. He’s gonna fucking gorge himself on every inch of Cas in case it turns out this is a fucking Djinn dream, or god forbid, Cas changes his mind or something.

As if Sam can read his fucking mind, he scowls.

“And if I notice you both going into the same stall, or even if you just take more than five minutes to get back to the car I’m going to fucking drive myself home – exhausted or not – and leave you stranded.”

He looks tired enough and pissed off enough to carry through with that threat, so Dean just rolls his eyes, climbs out of the car and stretches luxuriously.

Cas comes up behind him while he has his hands up in the air, fits his arms around his waist and nuzzles into Dean’s back. He brushes one hand over Dean’s crotch, nudges the bulge of his own cock against Dean’s ass.

Dean groans, knocks Cas’s hand away.

“C’mon, man!”

“He was just bluffing.” Cas asserts.

“He fucking wasn’t. He’s done it to me before.”

Cas hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder.

“Who’ve you been hooking up with in gas station bathrooms across the country – should I be jealous?”

Dean snorts.

“I wish. I was taking a fucking dump. Had to walk like five miles back to the motel.”

Cas laughs, and then sighs dramatically.

“Fine. I guess I’ll have to _try_ and keep my hands off you.”

They untangle and hurry to the toilet. Dean gets back to the car first, shortly followed by Sam, who lobs the keys at him and folds his unnaturally large frame into the back seat. Dean settles himself in the front, guns the engine and pulls out of their parking space.

He hears Cas’s startled cursing as he runs out of the diner, hands still wet.

“Sam! Come back! I’m here!”

Dean turns out of the parking lot and onto the road, floors the engine for a few seconds and then swings the car around and drives back to where Cas is standing, arms crossed, murder-glare in full force.

Dean stops the car beside him, waits until he stretches out his hand to grab the handle, and rolls the car forwards. Cas jogs after them and Dean keeps on rolling the car, just out of his reach every single time. And then Cas narrows his eyes, puts on a surprising burst of speed and throws himself into the vehicle before Dean can take off.

Dean whistles, impressed.

“You sure there’s not still a little bit of angel juice knocking around that skull of yours?”

“Your head hasn’t exploded yet, so I doubt it.” Cas replies.

“Alright, Captain Bad-Sport.” Dean laughs.

Cas dials up the murder-glare, but he can’t keep it up in the face of Dean’s relentless laughter for long. He cracks, first a smile, then a snort, and then he’s laughing too. He pushes at Dean’s arm.

“You are an ass.”

Dean nods in agreement.

“What took you so long, anyway? I was almost worried.”

Cas narrows his eyes, caught somewhere between sheepish and annoyed.

“It is very difficult to successfully urinate with a hard-on.”

Dean laughs again.

“It’s an art I’ve mastered.”

Cas snorts. He doesn’t even doubt it.

A grunting snore from the back seat startles them both.

“He’s asleep already?”

Dean nods. “It’s a Winchester art form. Comes from growing up in motels and on the run.”

Cas hums a noise of acknowledgement, and then he settles his hand on Dean’s thigh. Dean looks down, protests as it starts to creep gently up his leg.

“Dude – Sam’s in the back.”

“He’s asleep.”

“He’ll wake up if we start making sex noises.”

“Then don’t.” Cas reasons, looking at Dean carefully, gauging whether he really wants him to stop, or if this is just token resistance. Dean checks the road ahead of them. It’s late enough that it’s abandoned as far as the eye can see. He sighs, lets his head fall back briefly against the headrest, nods.

Cas doesn’t fuck around. There are times for teasing, and there are times for going ahead and jerking someone off as quickly as possible, because you never know when sleeping beauty in the back is going to wake up.

He yanks down Dean’s zipper, frees his cock. It’s semi-hard, enough that it doesn’t take Cas more than a few strokes to bring it back into the party. Dean lets out a little sigh, of relief, of pleasure, and Cas has to shush him quickly.

He swipes his thumb across the tip, gathers up the liquid there and smears it down the length of him. He gives it a few slow, careful pumps, and then speeds up, jerking hard and fast. Dean whimpers slightly at the change in pace and Cas rolls his eyes, leans over and pushes his free hand into Dean’s mouth, fingers threading over his teeth, muffling any further suspicious noises.

Dean’s eyes flare wide open and Cas can feel a whine pushing itself up out of Dean’s throat, vibrating his wet fingers.

“You like that.” He whispers, smugly, wondrously.

Dean doesn’t reply, can’t. He focusses on keeping the car on the road, locking his arms and stopping them from hurtling off into the bushes.

Cas’s long fingers work up and down his shaft with swift movements, faster and more aggressive than Dean would be on his own. He decides he likes it though, isn’t sure how much of that is down to it being Cas’s hands on him, and how much is that he just fucking likes being roughly handled.

He tries to moan again and Cas’s squeezes his face in rebuke, fingers pressing bruisingly tight into his gums. The addition of a little bit of pain to the pressure has Dean’s eyes fluttering closed for a second before he remembers where he is and opens them again. There’s too much to concentrate on – trying to stay silent, keeping the car on the road, the fucking ecstatic pleasure starting to spark and sputter in his cock, his balls drawing tight as he gets closer and closer, so fucking close, to coming.

“If I had a free hand,” Cas whispers into his ear, “I’d be working a finger into your ass right now, into that tight, pretty little hole, feeling it clench and twitch around me.”

Dean doesn’t know where the fuck Cas picked up dirty talk – he really hopes it wasn’t a fucking Mills and Boon novel zapped into his head by everyone’s least favourite heavenly douche – but oh god, he likes it.

Cas stops jerking him and Dean tries to whine his disapproval, turns into a rumbling, but thankfully muffled, groan when Cas brings his hand up to his mouth, licks a wide stripe down it. Dean’s gaze flicks from Cas to the road, Cas to the road, Cas to the road. He doesn’t want them to die, but he can’t tear his eyes away for long, can’t keep away from the sight of Cas licking shiny precome off his hand, tasting and swallowing with a wicked fucking gleam in his eye.

Cas twirls his tongue around one finger, and suddenly all Dean can think about is what he said, his ass clenching around nothing, wishing with every fiber of his being that they were back in the bunker, that Cas’s tongue was there instead, opening him up, getting ready to fuck him until he screamed.

Cas’s spit-slick hand circles around Dean’s cock again, pumps him once, twice.

He comes then, with one of Cas’s hands fisted around his cock, the other pressed into his mouth, gagging him. The car judders left and right as Dean throws back his head and Cas tries to catch Dean’s come in his hand, stop it spraying all over the steering wheel.

Unfortunately, the violent jolting is more than enough to wake Sam.

“What the fuck?!”

He sees Cas throw himself back into his seat, sees the flush on Dean’s face. Puts two and two together, comes up with four – disgusting, unhygienic, dangerous MORONS.

 

*

 

Sam makes Cas sit in the back for the rest of the drive. For reasons of _I don’t want to die a horrible screaming death because you two have all the impulse control of a pair of drunk toddlers._

They don’t even have the grace to look sheepish or guilty. He can see them eye-fucking in the mirror, smirking and being generally impossible.

He can’t wait to be somewhere with thick walls and lockable doors.


	4. Entirely Too Much Homo

It’s midday when they make it back to the bunker, and despite their supposed car rest, Sam and Cas are still knackered. Dean, somehow, despite having driven for nearly 6 hours, is full of beans.

He pulls into a supermarket on the way back, leaving the other two, moaning and irritated at the delay, in the car and returns with a cart full of groceries. He unloads them loudly, and with enthusiasm.

“This is your fault.“ Sam mumbles from under his own arm.

“You’ve known him longer. Why haven’t you trained it out of him?” Cas grumbles.

“And then, we can watch Daredevil. It’s been up on Netflix for ages, but man, with everything going on I haven’t had a chance. You’ll like it Cas – something you haven’t seen.” Dean’s altogether too cheery voice floats through the window.

Cas grunts in reply. Yeah, sure Dean, whatever.

“I bought enough to cook for the next few weeks too, figure we can just chill a while, not look for cases and just have a break, yeah?”

Two vague grunts of assent come from the car, but not because either of them agree. They’re barely listening and just want to hurry him along.

He does, eventually, driving the last half mile to the bunker with a grin and a whistle.

Cas stays to help Dean unpack the groceries from the car; Sam figures he’s still owed from his earlier near death experience and drags himself off to bed.

“You look beat, man.” Dean says.

Cas looks at him vaguely, barely conscious, and tries to come up with some sort of reply.

“Go take a nap. I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready, yeah?”

Cas nods blearily, shuffles down the corridor to the bedrooms. Dean’s is nearest the kitchen, and his own the furthest away.

He cracks open the door to Dean’s room, stumbles forward and collapses onto the bed, fully clothed. He lies down, only for a few seconds, only long enough to get his bearings before he carries on the long, cold trek to his own room. He doesn’t want to presume.

 

*

 

Dean covers over the stew and sets the timer for three hours. It’s better the longer you leave it, and with all the effort that goes into prepping the ingredients he’s bushed . He wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and just pass out.

He could have just made himself a snack, put dinner in the fridge and left it until tomorrow, but it’s been hours since he ate, and days since any of them ate properly. It won’t kill them to surface for it in a few hours. He has no problem with going to sleep hungry; hell, he did it for most of his childhood years. He can sacrifice that to give everyone a delicious home cooked meal, even if they all fall asleep in the middle of it.

He makes his way sleepily to his room, notices the door is cracked.

There’s a lumpy shape curled up on the blankets. Cas, in his bed. And suddenly the idea of getting up for food in three hours seems a whole lot less appealing. Not when they could be curled around each other, together.

He hadn’t expected to find Cas here.. He’s not used to the things he dreams about happening. He’s not used to wanting something, and it happening wholly the way he desires.

Fuck it, he’s not going to look this bed-haired, grumpy little gift horse in the mouth. Even if he is still fully clothed and lying on top of all the blankets.

He eases off Cas’s shoes first, which earns him a soft kick and a mumble. After that he tries to divest him of his jeans, but Cas swats at his hand, irritably.

“I’m just tryna get you comfy, jackass.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but he does stop struggling. Dean slips his jeans gently off him, decides the t-shirt can be left.

Now he just has to get him off the blankets. He starts shimmying them out from under Cas, who wakes up properly now, eyes slitted open and irked expression on his face.

“Hey, Cas.”

“I’m not getting up.” He mumbles, turning over and burying his face in the crook of his arm.

“I know. I’m joining you.”

“Oh.” He sounds a little more excited at that, allows Dean to roll him off the blankets and then settle them over him. Dean slips in on the other side, far enough away that he’s not touching, suddenly nervous.

It’s awkward, for a moment.

“I believe when couples share a bed, it’s more common that they actually touch.” Cas says, too tired to be really acidic.

“I...Yeah. Just, uh.”

Cas waits patiently. It requires no small effort on his part.

“You wanna be big spoon or little?”

Cas blanks for a moment, has to run through his mental rolodex of cultural things he vaguely recognises but doesn’t quite understand.

“Big spoon is the person who holds the other, little spoon is the person who is held?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Oh, uh, okay.”

Dean doesn’t make any effort to move.

Cas sighs.

“How about we both face each other?”

“Yeah, okay.”

They curl in together. Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck, drinking in the smell of him. Dean settles his nose in the tangled mess of Cas’s hair. This, this is good. Dean likes this.

Dean wraps his arms tight around Cas, sighs when Cas does the same.

They’re both going to have a killer case of dead arm when they wake up, but for now it’s so fucking comfortable, so fucking right, that they just roll with it. He could lie here forever, Dean thinks.

Cas squeezes Dean tight in a brief hug. He’d kiss him, had he the energy, but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls in a few deep, heavy breaths. Dean smells of leather and herbs and stew meat. And then, subtly, under all that, he smells like himself.

Cas sleeps better than he has since he became human. Whether that’s because he’s exhausted, or because he’s curled in Dean’s arms, he couldn’t tell you.

 

*

 

They wake to the sound of Sam’s yells and the smell of burning food.

Dean is up and on his feet instantly. Cas is slower. He’s not used to having to deal with sleep, and versus the Winchesters’ danger honed ability to snap awake, he has no chance. While Dean bolts up and out of the room, Cas scratches at his eyes blearily, waits until they regain some kind of focus, throws on the dead guy bath robe and stumbles out in Dean’s wake.

Sam is standing by the stove, a grim sort of smile on his face.

Dean looks more distraught.

“I can’t believe we slept for eight fucking hours.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Cas grumbles.

“That’s because you haven’t had a cup of coffee in nearly twenty four hours, you addict.” Sam adds jovially.

Cas scowls at him. Okay, yes, he’s taken quite easily to the joys of morning coffee, but whose fault is that? The Winchesters and their stupid early mornings and inhuman need for only four hours sleep, that’s who. Back in the days when Jimmy Novak actually slept he never had less than a solid nine every night, and his body is not taking kindly to the change.

Dean pulls the lid of his pot and backs away as smoke billows out. He coughs a few times, flaps his hands around in a feeble attempt to dissipate it, and then peeks inside, at the burned, blackened mess.

Cas comes over for a look, picks out a lump of what might once have been meat but looks a bit more like coal at the moment. He flips it between his fingers to cool it, wincing slightly and then tries to take a small bite.

It tastes like coal, too.

He spits it out into his palm with an apologetic look at Dean.

“How’s it taste?” Sam is gleeful, practically bouncing up and down. No one should be allowed to be this cheery at this time of day.

“You could probably power a generator with it.”

“Screw you guys.” Dean grumps.

“It’s not a comment on your cooking.” Cas soothes him. “You overslept.”

“Yeah, well.”

“And stew’s a bit much for this time of morning anyway.” Sam points out.

Dean glares at him. He put effort into this, and now it’s turned to shit. Story of his life, in culinary form.

“How about you and Cas make some bacon and pancakes now, and I’ll make lunch for you, later?”

“Fine.” Dean folds his arms. “But if lunch is a fucking salad I’m leaving and never coming back.”

“Cool. Gimme a yell when it’s ready. I’ll set up the TV, we can watch a movie , y’know, have a nice, lazy day for once.”

“Damn straight.” Dean shoots his reply at Sam’s retreating back and gestures for Cas to come over. He’s crumpled looking, barely awake, leaning on the table for support.

“First things first, we need to dose you up with your morning coffee.”

“You mean I can’t go back to bed?”

“No. C’mon. Y’gotta get used to mornings. I know it sucks, man, but I want you ready for anything.” The unspoken, I don’t want you to get hurt because I was too soft on you, let you sleep, left you unprepared, undercuts his words.

Cas sighs and turns towards the coffeemaker.

“Here, I’ve got a little something that’ll wake you up while we’re waiting.”

Dean pulls Cas closer by the ties of the bath robe, fits his hands around the curve of his ass and kisses him, quick and filthy. Cas makes a little grunt of surprise but then gets with the program. He participates enthusiastically, walking Dean back until he’s against the counter. Dean hops up to sit on it, wraps his legs around Cas and squeezes him tight. Cas threads his hands into Dean’s hair, gives it a little tug and then uses it to pull his head back, so he can mouth at his neck, scrape his teeth lightly over his clavicle.

And then the coffeemaker finishes burbling, and he lets go, steps to the side to pour his stupid drink.

Dean lets him go with almost no resistance. If they carry on going breakfast isn’t going to get made. Plenty of time for extracurriciulars when his stomach isn’t howling and screaming at him.

“Okay, cooking lesson time.”

Cas peers up at him from over his steaming mug. He doesn’t look ready to learn. Barely looks ready to be a multicellular organism.

“I’ll just show you this time, but next time you’re doing it.” Dean brandishes a spatula threateningly and Cas just blinks slowly at him. Dean waves a hand by his face, clicks his fingers in front of Cas’s nose to check if he’s fallen asleep standing up.

Cas grimaces and backs away irritably. Well, at least he’s alive.

“Pancake batter first. C’mere, you can’t see what I’m doing from there.”

“Sam said bacon, bacon fights back. I’m not getting near it.” Cas mumbles from behind his mug.

“You have sleeves, you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like bacon.”

“Yes you do.”

“I don’t like _cooking_ bacon.” Cas wearily corrects himself.

“We can do the bacon in the grill. Takes longer, but your precious skin will be safe.”

“Fine.” Cas drags the word out into a sigh.

“Wow, you are not morning people.”

“Mornings are best appreciated from under the covers.”

“I promise once we’ve eaten we can christen our new room.”

“New room?”

Cas knows he isn’t processing too quickly right now, but he has no idea what Dean’s talking about.

“Yeah, well, figured we’d move in together – if you want to, man.” He adds quickly. “But yeah, figured we could pick a new room, fresh start. Go to like an IKEA and pick out our own mattress and bed and furniture and paint the walls and shit.” Dean’s speaking pace picks up as he goes, and by the time he’s done his face is a vibrant, embarrassed shade of red.

He wants something domestic and normal, but he’s embarrassed by it, has been conditioned to think that wanting this, caring about decorating and furniture and building a home is a feminine thing, not the concern of a real man. Not something that the type of person his father fought tooth and nail and sometimes against Dean’s own nature to mould him in to, is supposed to care about. He’s unlearning this, with Charlie’s help, with Cas and Sam’s help, but the early years conditioning is still there, is still hard to shake sometimes.

Cas smiles blearily.

“I’d like that, but,” he sees Dean curl in a little on himself at the but, rushes the rest of the sentence out, “maybe we should wait to christen it until after it’s finished.”

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Good idea.”

“Is there an IKEA nearby? We could go later today?”

He knows Dean, knows that ideas like this have to be seized on quickly, otherwise he’ll convince himself it’s something stupid, or something that only he wants and everyone else is just going along with it.

Dean blinks at him, surprised, and then grins a little.

“Uh, yeah. We could go after breakfast.”

“I said we shouldn’t christen our new, shared room. I didn’t say we shouldn’t christen your bed.”

Dean laughs. Everyone thinks Cas is this cultureless tightass who doesn’t get jokes and doesn’t use contractions, but they couldn’t be more wrong. He’s the king of sarcastic little shits and apparently a horny asshole to boot. And he fucking loves him, oh, but he does.

“So after we eat, watch whatever film Sam wants, _and_ have some playtime, we’ll go to IKEA?”

“I like that plan.”

Dean sighs happily. Things are coming up alright. It’s a pleasant change.

Cas has started to perk up, the caffeine has kicked in and he’s awake. And maybe he put a little too much coffee in the mix, or maybe it’s just happiness, because he feels kinda buzzed. Everything’s starting to float on a blissful, cushioned cloud.

Dean shows him how to make pancake batter, sift the flour in with some salt and fold in the eggs. Mix a little milk and a drop of oil, and gently whisk it all together until it’s smooth and thick. Stop for a quick break, ostensibly to double check that you have bacon in the fridge, but really to tug your boyfriend up close and explore the inside of his mouth for a bit. Then you add the rest of the milk to the batter, bit by bit, whisking as you go until you have something approaching the texture of thick, single cream.

“You _can_ use the batter immediately, but it’s best to leave it for half an hour, if you can find something else to take your mind off things.” Dean informs Cas with a smirk.

“Oh, is that right?” He pauses. “Well, there’s some lore I really should have researched last night, so…”

Dean gapes at him, realises that he’s taking the piss and slaps him on the shoulder.

“You little shit.”

Cas shrugs, grins and pulls Dean towards him. Dean parts his lips a little in anticipation, but that’s not where Cas goes. He latches onto Dean’s neck, nips a little bit of skin between his teeth and worries at it until he’s sure he’s left a mark. Dean almost protests, what would Sam think, and then he remembers that they’re currently in the doghouse for road sex anyway so why not add some obvious marking. It’s not like he can get _more_ annoyed.

Dean throws his head back and lets Cas go to town on his neck, sighing contentedly, yelping a little when Cas strays too far over the pleasure/ pain divide. He settles his hands on Cas's waist for a bit, under the dressing gown, sneaks gradually around and back, dips his fingers under the hem of Cas’s boxers and grab two great palmfulls of his ass.

He caresses it, delighting in the soft sigh Cas lets out under him, massaging the taught, firm flesh. Damn he has a fucking nice ass. Dean can’t wait to properly explore it, taste it, thrust his tongue into Cas’s hole and eat him out until he’s begging to be fucked. He can’t wait for Cas to do the same, either. Remembers his words from the car, wants to feel those long, thin fingers split him open, wants to ride that big, fat cock.

The timer goes off before he can take any of those fantasies and turn them into realities.

Cas throws back his head in frustration, pulls away. Dean’s too hungry to even be that disappointed. They’ll have all the time in the world for fucking later; right now he needs to get some food in his system before he ends up passed flat out.

Dean chucks the bacon under the grill and turns his attention to the pancakes. He’s made more than enough for Cas to do a few practice flips, so he ladles in some mix and then hands over the pan.

“Yes?”

Cas asks, like he has no idea what Dean wants him to do. Come on. A whole world of pop culture in his head and not a single one of those books or films features pancake tossing? Bull. Shit.

“Flip it, Cas. So it cooks on both sides?”

Cas squints at the pan in his hand, sighs some big theatrical sigh and then flips the pancake perfectly. Bastard. He gives Dean a look that can only be described as smug.

“Fluke.” Dean asserts, with more confidence than he feels.

Cas flips the pancake again. And again.

“Okay, okay. I get it. There’s literally nothing you can’t do. Now gimme the pan.”

Cas relinquishes the pan and watches, slightly bored, as Dean makes a stack of pancakes. He keeps attempting to filch some, and Dean has to slap his hand away with his spatula so many times he’s eventually banished to the table.

Sam ambles back into the room, drawn by the smell of almost ready bacon. Deans serves his up first, because he likes his bacon soggy, gross and practically still oinking, the fucking freak. His and Cas’s he leaves in until it’s so crunchy you’re lucky if it doesn’t cut your mouth. He doesn’t actually ask Cas whether he likes his like this, he just assumes, because that is the correct way of cooking bacon and that’s how he’s getting it until he asks otherwise.

“This’s good, guys.” Sam mumbles around a mouthful of food. 

“I wasn’t involved in the cooking. Just some tossing.” Cas says, mildly.

Dean almost drops the plates he’d been carrying over to the table. Sam gives Cas the _look._ You might think you’re being subtle but your idea of subtle comes from a cheap romance novel STOP IT.

Apart from that, breakfast goes over pleasantly enough. Cas crunches through his bacon and looks wistfully over at Sam’s, but doesn’t actually complain.

“So, I picked out a film.”

“Uh, don’t we get a vote?” Dean queries. He’s had experience of Sam’s taste in films, and no thanks.

“No.” Sam replies, with an air of finality.

“What is it?” Cas doesn’t bother to argue. Doesn’t care enough.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but allows himself to be hectored and dragged to the living room. Sam’s set it up all nice and cosy – lights off, blankets on the sofas.

Dean settles down on one of the armchairs, and Cas tries to follow him down, but Sam intervenes.

“Nuh-uh. You’re not sitting together on something that small. I know where it’ll lead.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but gets up and resettles on the sofa. Cas plonks himself down on the opposite end, leaving a comical gap between himself and Dean. He bolsters the distance with a wall of pillows and a heaped blanket.

“Will that suffice, or would you like me to remove myself from the room entirely? I could procure some trousers, cover my shame?”

“Don’t act like I’m fucking overreacting. I caught you giving him a blow job in the car, while I was in the back! While he was driving!” Sam sputters indignantly.

“Actually it was just a—”

“No. Nononononononononononono I don’t want to know.”

Dean shrugs. “You brought it up.”

“Yeah, well, now I’m unbringing it up. Just shut up, stop being tools and watch the film.”

“Which is?” Dean presses.

“You’ll. See.” Sam says petulantly, throwing himself into the armchair and flicking play.

It’s _The Eye_ , and Dean is not happy about it.

“Dude. No. I live in a horror film. I don’t want to fucking watch them in my spare time.”

“It’s a good film, Dean. And it’s nothing like our shit.”

“Dude, c’mon.”

“It’s my turn to pick a film. I sat the whole way through that fucking ridiculous aliens and cowboy western thing you made me watch, so you’ll fucking sit through mine.”

“He was very patient during Cowboys and Aliens.” Cas agrees.

“First, man, you’re supposed to be on my side. Second, that film was fucking epic. Who doesn’t love Daniel Craig.”

“Me. Now shut up while I rewind because you’ve talked over like the first ten minutes.”

Dean realises that the more he argues, the longer this is going to go on, and the more of this dumb fucking film he’s going to have to watch, so he shuts up. He spends the first fifteen minutes slumped grumpily in his seat, arms crossed and too annoyed to pay attention.

And then he notices that the pillow Iron Curtain has somehow been dismantled without anyone noticing and that Cas is edging gradually down the sofa, towards him. Hello.

Cas finds his way to Dean’s side and slips an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. Cas is warm and comfortable and Dean has no problem folding himself into the embrace. He makes an actual proper effort to watch the film for a bit, something about fires and people dying. Yeah, totally nothing like their lives or jobs.

He’s trying, it’s not his fault that Cas seems just as bored as he is – he’s seen the film before, sort of, so any plot twists or wow moments are already out the fucking window for him – and he’s decided to try and deal with that by fitting his teeth around the shell of Dean’s ear and nipping lightly.

Ears don’t really do much for him, especially not when there’s another area of his body in that vicinity that’d appreciate the attention more. He tugs his ear out of the way and kisses Cas instead. Dean starts it out relatively light, in respect for Sam in the corner, quickly decides fuck it, it’s his fault for putting on such a shit film, and moves them over into face sucking territory.

He settles himself on Cas’s lap and takes his face in his hands. Cas is looking up at him with a little smile, just sincere enough not to be called a smirk. He mouths something at Dean, but he doesn’t catch it. It’s not an instruction to stop though, so he can’t really bring himself to care too much.

He slips his tongue between Cas’s teeth with a little sigh, barely audible. Definitely covered up by the sounds of the film. They keep it clean for as long as possible, PDA and gross, but clean. And then Cas starts to rock upwards, just slightly, enough for Dean to notice but hopefully not Sam. Dean can’t even tell if he’s doing it deliberately or not, but he fucking likes it.

Up until now Cas’s hands had been wandering, stroking up and down Dean’s sides, trailing up his ribs and skating over his throat and chest, feeling his pulse and the soft skin on his throat, the gentle stubble of the beard trying to grow. And then he fits them over Dean’s ass and squeezes at it tenderly, massages the firm flesh through his jeans.

Dean whines into Cas’s mouth, starts a slow and steady grind down into his lap.

Sam throws the remote control at them, hard. It connects with Dean’s head, where it’s definitely going to leave a bruise.

Dean detaches himself from Cas’s face.

“Dude, that hurt.”

“Good! I release you from your one small social obligation of the day. Go be gross somewhere less public.”

They don’t need telling twice. Dean’s out the door so fast Sam’s almost convinced he smoked out – hoarded some vestige of demon power just for this occasion.

Cas follows, chuckling in the sort of dark, predatory way that you never, ever want to see on one of your friends. Especially when it’s your brother he’s slinking out of the room after.

Sam pulls out his phone and whacks off a quick text to Charlie. 

**— I’m going to break them up. This is so much worse than the UST.**

**— I** **can’t let you do stand in the way of true(ly gay) love.**

**— If I see Cas with his hands on my brother’s ass /one/ more time I am going to join the WBC.**

**— SAM!!!!!!!**

**— It’s been less than two days. I caught him giving Dean a blowjob WHILE HE WAS DRIVING!**

**— Okay, ew. Men are gross.**

**— Not all men.**

**— Careful Sam, slippery slope.**

**— Where’s my fedora???**

**— Deleting your number.**

**— :((((((**

**— Stop it. It’s weird enough when Cas uses smileys. Not you too.**

**— Please don’t make me think about Cas when we both know what he’s currently doing.**

**— The guy hasn’t been laid in what, a couple of millennia, give him a break.**

**— Can I come and stay with you until they’ve got it out of their system?**

**— You probably wouldn’t enjoy it too much here, either…**

**— Oh my god, I’m surrounded by vile, degenerate homosexuals.**

**— Muahahahahahahaha**

Sam hears a long, drawn out groan from somewhere in the direction of Dean’s room.

**— Oh my god BRB gotta find some powerful headphones**

**— Good luck!**

He can almost hear Charlie’s laughter.

Sam slams his bedroom door shut, boots up the film on his laptop and plugs in the biggest, most powerful, ear covering headphones he can find.


	5. For Every Silver Lining a Cloud

Dean’s not quite lying seductively across the bed by the time Cas catches up with him, but it’s not for want of trying.

He’s shirtless, with his back to Cas, bent over and struggling to untie his laces.

Cas comes up behind him and lightly smacks his ass, sticking up in the air and too good to resist.

“Easy there, tiger.”

Dean manages to get one boot off, hops around to face Cas as he struggles with the other one. Cas snorts, palms himself obviously through his jeans – because he knows it’ll fluster Dean further, and he is an asshole.

“Dude! No. You are not allowed to get this party started without me!”

Cas shrugs, like he’s rethinking the whole idea of dating a man who isn’t even capable of untying shoelaces.

Dean finally deals with the offending shoe, chucks it across the room with no small degree of vehemence, and pounces on Cas.

Cas takes the armful of horny Winchester in his stride, dipping his fingers in under the hem of Dean’s jeans and trailing them around to the front, where he forces the button open with a pop.

Dean grunts an approving noise and nips at Cas’s lower lip, pulling away a little so he can work Cas’s shirt over his head. He wants to get another eyeful of that body.

He does, staring appreciatively for so long that Cas rolls his eyes, plunges his hand down inside Dean’s jeans and grabs his cock, slightly too tight, through his boxers.

“Okay! Okay! I’m back in the room. Just y’know, appreciating the goods.”

Cas smirks, relinquishes his grip and pulls down Dean’s zip, kneeling down and slowly working him out of his jeans, brushing his hand down the insides of his thighs as he does so.

Dean moans, mumbles something about a big fucking tease, and obediently steps out of his pants.

He’s standing in just his boxers now, and Cas is still stubbornly half dressed. Dean conveys how much he disapproves of this with a whine. Cas stands, kicking off his shoes with a smug grin.

“Alright, show-off.”

Cas sheds his jeans and hooks a thumb into his boxers, pulling them down tantalisingly slowly, a one garment strip tease, until Dean is almost drooling. His cock springs free from its confines and Dean stares at it hungrily, makes a little wanting noise in the back of his throat.

Cas gives Dean a moment to appreciate it, and then he crowds him, forces him to walk backwards to the bed and then pushes him down onto it.

Dean doesn’t go down easy. He grabs Cas, pulls him down on top, fitting his hands around his waist and biting at his neck and collarbone.

Cas grinds down on him, slow and dirty for a bit before he sits up and shuffles back, slips two fingers under the waistband of Dean’s boxers and gives them a little snap before pulling them off entirely.

“Oh, you are _so_ gonna pay for that.”

Cas just quirks his eyebrows in response. Oh yeah?

Dean crosses his legs around the backs of Cas’s shins, pulls him down on top of him and then flips them over. He sits on Cas’s chest and pins his arms above his head and grinds down on him.

“Oh yeah?” he says, as Cas grunts in approval. “You like this? Me on top of you? Yeah?”

“I think I’d prefer you under me and begging to be fucked, but this is good too.” Cas smiles darkly up at Dean, punctuates his words with a violent thrust of his hips.

A flush runs up the entire length of Dean’s body and he shudders.

“Maybe next time. This time I’m gonna ride you until we’re both screaming.”

Cas grins. He’s amenable to that. Shit, he’s amenable to pretty much anything Dean wants to do to him. This is as good a start as any.

Dean lets go and Cas’s hands immediately find their way to Dean’s ass, pinching and kneading at the flesh there. He skates one finger over his rim and Dean sighs happily.

“I assume you have lube?” Cas asks.

“Duh.” Dean tries to get up and go get it, but Cas won’t let him. He tightens his grip, tries to pull him forward, up towards his face.

“What’re you going for there, babe?”

“I wanna eat you out.”

And hell if Dean’s ever gonna say no to that, but he wants to get the lube within reach before they carry this on.

“Just lemme grab the lube first, yeah, then we’ll carry on, no interruptions.”

Cas pouts, but releases his grip. Dean stands fumbles in the drawers, grabs the little plastic bottle and tosses it on the bed beside Cas’s hand. He stretches luxuriously, displaying himself to Cas, and then kneels down over his head.

Cas grabs hold of his ass, kneads the flesh for a little bit and then pulls Dean’s cheeks apart, thrusts his tongue in. He licks over and over his rim, teasing, gentle at first and then getting firmer until finally he points his tongue and pushes the tip inside. Dean groans and rolls his hips down, trying to chase Cas’s tongue, get it in there, deeper, harder.

Cas works him like that for a while, and then grabs the lube, slathers it on his fingers, slips one in and starts stretching Dean out. He’s rewarded with a low, rumbling moan and a renewed grinding motion from Dean.

Cas works Dean open, with fingers and tongue, until there’s spit and lube dribbling down his chin, coating his face.

“I’m ready.” Dean grunts out.

“You sure? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I know my limits man, I wanna sit on your dick.”

Cas laughs, relinquishes his grip, and lets Dean go .

Dean lowers himself down carefully – it’s been a while since he’s had anything bigger than a few fingers up there, and he wants to take it slow. Sex toys and shared motel rooms aren’t a great combination, and he never liked bringing dudes back while Sam was around. Not that he thought Sam would judge, exactly, but, well, there’s a lot of repressed shit there that Dean doesn’t want to talk to anyone about, and letting Sam know that he also liked banging dudes would be the quickest way to bring that into the open.

And anyway, less thinking about his brother and awkward conversations that he just knows are waiting to happen, and more thinking about fucking himself down on the meaty cock splitting him open.

Cas folds his hands behind his head and watches Dean with an altogether too smug grin. And why wouldn’t he? He’s got the love of his life sitting on his cock, settling, adjusting and getting ready to move. He’s already on cloud fucking nine, and it’s only about to get better.

“Fucking touch me, you asshole.”

Looks like Dean’s ready, then.

Cas sighs, like this is altogether too much effort, and takes hold of Dean’s hips. He gives a few short, sharp, staccato thrusts that have Dean moaning and rolling his head back.

And then Dean’s phone rings.

They both turn to stare at it, angry, confused.

“It’ll stop.” Dean asserts, although he doesn’t sound entirely sure.

He starts to roll his hips again, teasing Cas into starting up a rhythm under him. The call rings out, and then starts again.

“For fuck’s sake!”

Dean snatches up the phone, hits answer and snarls into it.

“I’m fucking – uh,” he grunts as Cas thrusts up aggressively, like the little shit he is, “I’m fucking — oh god – busy.” He hangs up and throws the phone against the wall, with a rough clatter.

“You are such an ass.”

Cas just grins in reply, slows down to something a bit more gentle. Dean starts to move again, slightly out of time with Cas’s own thrusts. He focuses, finds the right rhythm and settles into it. Cas keeps speeding up, incrementally, until Dean is bouncing up and down so fast his thighs ache. He’s gonna feel this everywhere tomorrow, a reminder that this is real, that he didn’t fucking dream it. He can’t wait.

“C’mon, Cas! Harder! Fucking nail me.” He shouts, even though he doesn’t know how long he’d be able to handle it if he does increase his pace.

Cas makes a valiant effort, groaning underneath Dean, but redoubling his efforts. He’s close, so fucking close, but he doesn’t want to blow his load and leave Dean hanging, so to speak.

“I’m close, Dean.”

“Me too, oh god, man. Me fucking too.” Dean grunts out, eyes squeezed closed, expression close to bliss on his face. He can feel his balls drawing tight, heat building in his stomach.

Cas thrusts upwards as powerfully as he can, switches angles slightly and manages to slam into Dean’s prostate. It’s more than enough.

Dean comes with a _howl._ Thick, white jizz shoots out of his cock, splattering across Cas, onto his chest, and even his face. He looks so debauched, so _surprised,_ that Dean can’t help but fucking laugh. He rolls his hips a few more time, clenches around Cas’s cock, and suddenly that’s it for him as well.

Dean feels Cas empty himself in his hole, painting him with heat, marking him up from the inside.

God, but he loves that feeling. Won’t love it shortly, when it’s drying and dribbling down the insides of his legs, but for now it’s fucking great.

He pulls off Cas with a wet pop before he can soften, hole clenching nothing, wanting to be filled again.

He flops down next to Cas, pulls him into an embrace and mumbles into his collarbone.

“That was fucking awesome.”

“Yes.” Cas agrees, simply.

They lie there, floating in blissful post orgasmic haze. Maybe also napping slightly. Cas turns Dean around, pulls him into his chest and buries his nose in his hair. If anyone else did this, Dean thinks he might have protested, or at least put up a token resistance. But he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter that he’s probably not supposed to enjoy this, being the one who’s held, feeling protected, enveloped in someone’s embrace. But he does enjoy it. He feels fucked out, he feels sated, but most of all, most importantly he feels cherished. And that’s something he wouldn’t mind getting used to.

 

*

 

Eventually Cas stirs sluggishly, mumbles into the back of Dean’s neck.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Dunno. Didn’t exactly give him time to talk.”

Cas snorts.

As though it can hear them talking about it, Dean’s phone starts to ring again. He groans, covers his eyes with his hands.

Cas pushes him out of the bed.

“Your phone, your problem.”

“Ass.”

He hits accept call.

“Dean Winchester speaking. S’up?”

“Dean! It’s Buck Carson. Listen kid, before we start I just wanna apologise for interrupting when you were knee deep in pussy. I just didn’t expect you to be getting tail at two in the afternoon is all. Guess your daddy were right about you, total ladies’ man, huh?”

Something nasty and unpleasant uncoils in Dean’s gut at the mention of his father. God, his dad would probably kill him if he knew what he was doing. Sitting there with another man’s – a fucking ex-supernatural being’s – come crusted around his ass and on the inside of his thighs.

“Uh, yeah.” He agrees weakly, trying to keep the shake out of voice.

Cas sits up on the bed, fixes him with a penetrating stare. Dean smiles at him in what he hopes is a reassuring fashion.

“I bet she was smoking hot. The whole deal, tight bitch, huge tits.”

Dean makes a noise of agreement, and then he feels guilty. So fucking guilty for lying like that, like he’s ashamed of Cas. Like he’s something dirty and dark, too gross, or unimportant, to let anyone know about.

“How big?”

“Look, man, what d’ya want?”

“Alright, alright, don’t shoot a man for tryna make conversation. Not all of us can get smokin’ little sluts to keep our dicks warm. Don’t blame a man for fishing for some scraps for the spank bank.”

Dean rubs his temples. Cas catches his eye and mouths at him, “ Who is it?”

Dean replies by making the universal hand gesture for _the person I am talking to on the phone is an actual fucking piece of shit._

“Look man, I don’t mean to be rude, but I was kinda busy when you called.”

Buck laughs. “She still there, is she? I’ll let you get back to her in a minute, I promise. I just wanted to invite you and Sammy boy up on a hunt. I know your old man’s not around anymore-- shame, because damn we coulda used him-- but I managed to track down this number for ya. Took a while, mind.”

“Yeah?”

“I been keeping an eye out for a way to contact you fer a while. I knew your old man well enough. I’m sure I’ve got some stories you haven’t heard. Be good to see you both, John’s legacy. You kids meant the world to him.”

“I dunno man, we’re just back from a hunt, we were counting on a few days…”

“Huh. Maybe you’re less like John than I thought. He’d never put off a fucking hunt ‘cause he wanted a break.”

The accusation stings. This whole fucking conversation stings.

“What _is_ the job?”

“S’a biggun. We need all hands on deck.”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

“Demons. Your speciality, so I’ve heard.”

Dean snorts, that’s one way of putting it.

“Have *you* hunted demons before?” Dean asks.

“I haven’t. One or two of the other boys have.”

“Wait, how many of you are there?”

“Umm. Last count I’d say about seven or eight so far.”

“Eight hunters working the same job?”

“I told you it’s a big ’un.”

“How many fucking demons are you expecting?”

“10, mebbe 15.”

“15 demons? Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. Word on the street is it’s something to do with the King o’ Hell. They’re plotting insurrection and don’t wanna be doing it on his home turf.”

“Makes sense...” Dean replies, wondering if he should get ahold of Crowley – tell him he’s got dissent stirring in the ranks – and managing to completely miss the next few words out of Buck’s mouth.

“Sorry, what?”

“I _said_ are you in, man? We could use the two of you.”

“Three.” Dean corrects, without thinking.

“You bringing your chick along?”

“Chick?” His brain takes a moment to catch up. “Oh, no. An old friend – Cas. Family, or as good as.”

He frowns a little at the inadequacy of that description, ploughs on regardless. “He’s solid, and definitely someone you want on your side in a fight.”

“Cool. So, I take it you’re in?”

Dean grimaces. He fucking hates other hunters. He hates talking to them, he hates seeing them, hates working with them. On the other hand, though, that’s a lot of demons for a bunch of fucking amateurs to deal with. He can’t sit this one out and let them fuck it up and all get killed.

“Yeah. I’m game. Text me the details and we’ll head up soon as we can.”

“Shaweeeeeeeet. Be good to see you, bet you’ve grown up to make your daddy proud.”

Dean grunts what he hopes is an affirmative and hangs up. He stays still for a moment, absorbing what he just agreed to, and then he flops down on the bed, buries his head under the covers.

Cas shuffles over and tries to excavate his face. He manages to unearth an eye.

“What?”

“I agreed to go on a hunt,” comes the muffled response.

Cas looks at the forlorn eye peering out at him. Agreeing to go on a hunt is pretty standard behaviour. He assumes there’s more to it.

“Big job. Demons.”

Still not particularly out of their ordinary.

“With a load of other hunters.”

There we go.

“And I take it you’d rather not?”

“No fucking shit.” Dean mutters.

“Then don’t.”

“I can’t let them get killed. I don’t _like_ other hunters. Don’t mean I want them to die or get possessed or whatever.” The blanket heap formerly known as Dean mumbles.

Cas snorts.

“Hoisted by your own noble sentiments, once again.”

“Suck a dick, Cas.”

“Does it have to be yours?”

“Wow, okay. Rude.”

Cas just smirks at him.

Dean sighs and rolls onto his back, out from under the covers. He tries to get up, but doesn’t quite make it that far.

“We were gonna go to IKEA, pick our room and all that coupley shit.”

“But saving people comes first.”

“Yeah, yeah it does. But still—”

“IKEA will still be there when we get back. So will the bunker.”

“God, you’re annoyingly laid back about this.”

“I’m several millennia old. I can wait a few more weeks.”

“Dude. If this hunt takes weeks I am taking off out of there. No way I can be cooped up with that many hunters for that long and not kill at least one.”

Cas laughs.

“So, which of us is going to tell Sam the bad news?”

“We’re equally in the doghouse with him. Don’t think it matters.”

Cas looks at Dean, his mussed hair, the crusted come on his thighs. He sniffs at himself. It’s not too unpleasant, he smells like sweat and sex and Dean, but he doesn’t think it’s a smell Sam would appreciate.

“Maybe we should both shower first.”

“Y’think, genius? I can still feel your gross, crusty jizz up my ass.”

“You seemed to enjoy it at the time.” Cas points out.

Dean concedes that, grinning.

“Dibs on first shower.”

Cas grumbles. “You mean we’re not sharing?”

“No, because I said we’d be on the road today. I don’t need your fucking glistening, naked body getting me side-tracked.”

“Spoilsport.”

Dean shrugs. What can you do.


	6. Monsters and Faggots

For once Dean doesn’t insist on driving, blaming a cut he got on the run from the cops and _“other things,”_ said with a wink. Sam nearly tells them to just go on without him and he’ll drive the Continental, but of course that’d mean leaving them alone in the car together, and no.

Cas drives, and Sam makes Dean sit in the back. There’s a predictable amount of moaning and whining, but eventually Dean settles down, hums along to the songs on the radio and stares out the window.

Cas starts to flag about three hours in, and Sam volunteers to take the wheel. By the time they pull into Springfield, IL, Cas is fast asleep and snoring, much to Dean’s amusement. They circle around for a while, trying to find the Midtown Inn Motel. Contrary to its name, it’s on the fucking edge of town, but they get there eventually. Sam parks, gets out of the Impala and stretches. He’s about to go round to Cas’s side and bang on the door, let him know they’re ready and get him up, when Dean intervenes.

“Let’s get the rooms first, come back for him.”

Sam agrees with a shrug and they wander on up to the front desk.

“Hey, can I get a—”

“Nope.” The blonde girl at reception doesn’t even let Dean finish.

“I’m sorry?”

“No rooms.”

Dean sighs, runs his hand through his hair. That’s almost a relief. He’s gonna have to hang out with hunters all day long, this gives him an excuse not to share a fucking motel with them either.

“Okay, well can you point me to the nearest place that’s likely to have some?”

She snorts at him.

“Do I look like fucking TripAdvisor to you? Just drive until you find something.”

He’s saved from starting a fight by a booming voice coming from behind.

“Dean! Sam! Glad you could make it.” An older man slaps him on the back. He looks so much like a fucking hunter. Grizzled, drunk, nasty little glint in his eye. So, this is Buck, then. “Where’s number three?”

“Asleep in the car.”

Buck snorts.

“What is he, a baby?”

Sam cuts in.

“We were just about to split, actually. No room at the inn.”

Buck waves his hand.

“Don’t worry about it, I snagged you guys the last one. S'a double though, so I figure you brothers can take it. My room’s a twin, so your third can bunk up with’ me. I know I look rough, but I only shoot monsters and faggots.”

Buck laughs, like he’s just made the funniest joke in the world. Sam smiles awkwardly at him, but Dean’s gone into total shutdown mode.

He’d known that this was a gathering of hunters, that hunters aren’t the most tolerant of people. Shit, he’s always hated the way most of them talk to him, teasing him for his pretty face and his girly mouth. But he hadn’t put it all together, realised just how much worse it’d be this time. He hadn’t processed what that’d mean for him and Cas.

If these hunters find out that they’re together. Shit. They’ll be lucky to get out alive.

Cas chooses this moment to come ambling sleepily up to the front desk.

“You weren’t in the car.” He mumbles, eyes still half shut, not quite awake.

He makes towards Dean, to lean on him or god forbid, kiss him or hold his hand. Dean freaks out.

“Personal space, Cas.” He snaps.

Cas stops dead, looks at him confused, and then takes a few steps backwards. For a second he looks hurt, and then he marshals his features into something neutral. Shit, now Dean feels like the worst kind of bastard. He just wants to grab Cas, tell him it’s okay. But he can’t. He fucking can’t.

Buck gives Cas a curious once over, holds out his hand.

“Name’s Buck. You’ll be bunking up with me for the duration. There aren’t enough rooms to go around, so.”

“Oh.” Cas blinks at him, not quite awake or fully processing. Dean waits for him to say, I’ll just share Dean’s bed, blow the whole thing wide and burn all their bridges with the hunter community forever. He doesn’t though. He just flicks Dean a confused little glance and nods.

“I’ll grab my things from the car.”

“Why don’t you go help him, Dean. I’ll settle the room?” Sam asks, pointedly.

“Actually, I’m kinda beat from driving. Wanna rest my leg for the hunt, y’know?”

Sam nods, even though he knows it’s bullshit, even though Dean’s leg is fine and they both fucking know it, and accompanies an increasingly confused Cas back to the Impala.

“What’s going on?” Cas asks, the moment they’re out of earshot.

Sam sighs.

“You know there are a lot of intolerant people out there, right?”

“Yes.”

“People who don’t like other people because of their gender, race, sexual orientation?”

“The body I’ve ended up in is white and male, so am I to guess this is about the third one?”

“Yeah. It is.”

“That hunter, he has a problem with the LGBT community.”

“He made a joke, that he only hunts monsters and ‘fags’.”

Cas nods slowly.

“And that’s why Dean is being strange?”

“You know Dean’s got a lot of issues.”

Cas hums in agreement.

“Well, this guy was a friend of our dad’s.”

“A man who’d have been very upset if he knew his son was bisexual.”

“And then some.”

Cas sighs. He’s only just started to be allowed to touch Dean, and now he’s going to have to try and keep it under wraps again.

“I’m sorry he’s too fucking chicken to tell you all of this yourself, Cas.”

Cas just shrugs. Dean probably has a good reason, or at least one that makes sense in his own head, but Cas is too tired to try and rationalize and untangle Dean’s particular brand of neuroses right now.

“I get the feeling he’s going to spend our entire time here ignoring me. Might as well get used to it.” Cas says.

“That’s pretty shitty for you.”

“It’s pretty shitty for him too.”

“It’s shitty for him of his own making, though.”

“He has his reasons.”

“Yeah.” Sam agrees, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t agree with them. And well he is allowed not to, but he’s made of different stuff from Dean. Cares less about the memory of his father, and by extension, the opinions of his old friends.

Dean isn’t ready to alienate the old guard, the people who remember and cherish his dad in the way he’s still working not to. So Cas isn’t going to force him, he’s going to play along. And he’s going to hate every minute.

 

*

 

Dean, Sam and Cas aren’t the last hunters to arrive. They’re still expecting another four or five people, and no one wants to go and take on demons  at half-strength. That means a whole day sitting around, planning, exchanging gossip and stories and, predictably, a little bit of hooking up for that last bang before potential death tomorrow.

Dean and Sam have eaten breakfast by the time Cas comes down, woken by an amused Buck with a warning that he has fifteen minutes to “shower, shit and shave” and get downstairs if he wants to be fed.

He shovels stale bran flakes down grudgingly, pulling a face at the unfamiliar taste of UHT milk. Why anyone would voluntarily drink this swill when fridges have been invented, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t talk, answers Buck’s questions with grunts, nods and shakes of his head.

“Y’aint a morning person, are ya?”

“D— I’ve been told not, no.”

“Well, you get yourself a coffee and a brighter mood and then come along to room 62. S’the biggest room we got, and we don’t want civs overhearing us talking ‘bout demons and shit.”

Buck leaves Cas alone with his now soggy cereal. He grits his teeth and finishes it, tries to go up and get coffee, only to be told breakfast is over, and can he now scram?

“Coffee?” He grunts.

“Vending machine.” Is the equally terse reply.

He grumbles, fishes around in his pockets and pulls out a couple of dollars’ worth of coins. He finds the machine, feeds them into it and selects espresso.

A tiny amount of black sludge dribbles out into a plastic cup. He throws it back, buys another, and then shuffles irritably to room 62.

 

*

 

Cas automatically gravitates towards Dean, forces himself to stand an acceptable distance away, to not touch or even look at him too long.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Oh. Hi.” His tone is distant, clipped. Like Cas is less his friend, his – for want of a less infantilising word – boyfriend, and more some strange little nuisance that he’s picked up along the way and can’t shake off.

“How did you sleep?” Cas tries to make small talk. Small talk is safe. Everyone does it. They can’t possibly give anything away.

“Yeah. Fine.”

Dean doesn’t ask anything back.

Cas forces down the flash of hurt and irritation, looks around for something to do that isn’t just standing in awkward silence.

Someone has managed to procure a building schematic of the warehouse where the demons are supposed to be holed up, and there are six people currently pouring over it, offering suggestions and tactics. Cas joins them, studies it and considers carefully. He’s a tactician, this is what he’s good at. He might as well put those skills to some constructive use.

“Why don’t we send a few people in through the sewage tunnels? Separate from the main group and surprise the demons further?”

His suggestion gets laughed out of hand.

“I ain’t tunnelling through no shit.” A middle aged woman, with a knife on her belt the size of Cas’s arm, sneers.

“Sewage tunnels are usually relatively clean, so long as you time it correctly. If we could—”

“Look. No-one knows who the fuck you are, and no-one asked your opinion. Can it.”

Cas looks over at Dean, like he’s asking him to step in and vouch for him to these idiots. And Dean wants to, he fucking wants to, but he can’t. He can’t talk to Cas, he can’t defend Cas. God, he can’t even fucking _look_ at him. ‘Cause he might have a decent poker face most of the time, but not when it comes to Cas. God, every time Dean sees him, he just wants to reach out and touch him. Sling an arm over his shoulder, knock their knees together. Just anything, any little grounding touch.

But he can’t. He can’t have the little things, can’t even have the innocent seeming things, because these people are hunters. They’re sharp eyed and they’re all fucking detectives. It’s why they’re still alive.

So Dean has to ice Cas out entirely. Ignore his crestfallen little expressions, almost instantly masked, and the way he becomes more irritable and taciturn as the day goes by.

After a little while Buck comes up to Dean, pulls him aside.

“Strange company you’re keeping, there.”

“Hmm?”

“That Cas fella. Not the sort of guy your dad would’ve approved of, I don’t think.”

“What makes you say that?” Dean starts to panic. What has Cas said? Oh god, what’s about to happen.

“There’s something off about him. Bit of a fucking strange’un. Not a proper hunter.”

“Cas has been hunting for longer than I have.”

“Huh. You couldn’t tell to look at him.”

“Dude’s saved my life more times than Sam, probably.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean confirms, feeling like he’s walking into some kind of trap.

“Not exactly a red blooded American male, though. Not like us.”

“He seems pretty normal to me.”

“I offered him one of my pin-up mags, icebreaker, y’know. He looked at it like it like it was diseased, handed it back to me and said he doesn’t believe in the exploitation of women.”

Dean snorts out a laugh before he can stop himself.

“You think that’s funny?”

For once, Dean’s brain is on his side. Spits out lightning quick. “He’s just messing with you, dude. That’s his sense of humour. He owns more porn than I do.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, man.” Dean quickly spins out some bullshit. “You shoulda seen the blond he had the other night. They were so loud, Sammy had to break out his headphones.”

He doesn’t mention that the blond in question was, in fact, himself.

Buck laughs.

“Maybe I’ve misjudged him. That’s on me.”

“He takes some getting used to.” Dean placates him.

“Yeah. I can see that. Still, not the sort of man your dad would have been expecting you to hang around with.”

Dean shrugs. He doesn’t fucking want to go near that with a bargepole.

“You didn’t turn out bad, though. You or Sammy neither. He’d’a been proud of you.”

“T-thanks.”

“About time you both found yourselves a good woman, though.”

“Uh…”

“It’s hard, finding someone in this job, but there are plenty of female hunters. I know a few. I can get you some numbers, y’know, people who understand, who’re already in the game.”

“I, uh, thanks, but…”

“But what? You’re getting older Dean. You’ve still got the looks and the charm, but for how much longer? Your dad would want to know you’re carrying on the Winchester line.”

“I know, but, I..” He panics, flails around. “I’m not ready to settle down with anyone, probably won’t ever be. Fun is fun, I’ve never wanted to tie myself down to one person forever. That’s more Sam’s end of the deal.”

“Dean.”

Cas voice right behind him makes him jump. Shit, how much of that did he hear? He’s gotta know he didn’t mean it, right? He turns to look at him.

“What’s up, man?”

Cas’s face is unreadable, even to Dean. That’s not good, that’s really not fucking good.

“Can I borrow your phone charger? I must have left mine at home.”

“Uh, sure. Yeah. I’ll go get it.”

Dean knows full well that Cas has his phone charger with him, he packed Cas’s bag. It’s the first thing he’d have seen when he opened it. What the fuck is this about, then? Is he letting Dean know he heard him? Shit. Fucking motherfucking Jesus fucking fuck.

He expects Cas to follow him out of the room, but he doesn’t. By the time Dean comes back with the charger, Cas is engrossed in discussion with a female hunter. She’s maybe a few years older than Dean, and she’s very attractive. Would have been exactly Dean’s type, if he wasn’t already, y’know. Cas wanders off to plug in his phone and Dean is left alone with her.

She introduces herself as Alice, flirts relentlessly with him.

Buck catches Dean’s eye from over her shoulder. Winks and makes an obscene gesture.

Dean flirts back, because that’s what is expected of him. Because he needs to maintain their cover. Because an old friend of his dad’s is watching, has told him how proud his dad would be of him. Because somewhere, deep down inside, he still needs to impress John Winchester. And if John Winchester isn’t around, then his friends are the next best thing.

Cas comes back into the room and sees Dean and Alice flirting relentlessly. Fingers brushing, laughing, body language keyed in time, swaying and mirroring each other.

He remembers what he overheard Dean saying. Knows he’s being irrational. Knows that this is just an act that Dean is putting on for the benefit of those gathered here.

It doesn’t stop it really fucking hurting though. It’s only been a few days. Maybe Dean’s changed his mind. Maybe it was just for lack of a better option. Maybe all this was just another torture thrown his way. And he loves Dean, and he trusts Dean, but he can’t stamp out that clawing, niggling doubt.

 He hasn’t been able to touch Dean since they got here, and Dean has gone out of his way to avoid talking to him. Cas trusts him, he does, but he fucking misses him. It’s been less than a day and he misses Dean already. Cas just wants to touch him, or failing that, actually being able to talk to him would be nice.

They won’t even get to see each other after this, in Dean’s bedroom, with its double bed, because it’s Dean and Sam sleeping in it, not Dean and Cas. Cas gets stuck sharing with this asshole hunter, who offers him the most grossly demeaning kinds of porn as though that’s a usual thing to offer to a relative stranger.

Alice leans in to whisper something into Dean’s ear, so close that she could be kissing him. Hurt and anger and jealousy all spark in Cas’s gut.

Buck sidles over.

“You got the hots for Alice too?” He says, with a knowing grin.

“Something like that.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. He’s Dean Winchester. He always gets the girl.”

Alice laughs at something Dean says, and then excuses herself. Dean waves her off and then surveys the room, notices Buck and Cas and wanders over.

“Hey, Buck, Cas. You okay?” His voice is light and breezy, no trace of care or concern.

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas snaps at him.

Dean flinches. Shit. He’s managed to piss Cas off now. He can’t fucking do anything right. He wishes he’d never come on this hunt. He forces himself to look at the expression on Cas’s face, can read the hurt in it, and it makes him feel so fucking low, so tiny and pathetic and shit.

He wants to hold his fucking hand and tell him that everything will be okay. That soon this will be over and they can go home.

But he can’t.

Dean needs a drink, but he can’t do that around Cas or these hunters, knows how that’ll end, with his fucking loose tongue and drunken need for affection.

He excuses himself, pretends he’s going to the toilet, and throws himself into the Impala.

He drives for a few miles, enough that they shouldn’t be able to find him, and dives into the nearest bar. It’s empty, it being 3pm on a Thursday. Perfect for what he needs.

He orders a beer and wallows in his misery. Follows it up with a few whiskeys and gratuitous amounts of self-pity.

He’s such a fucking wreck. He should be enjoying himself right now. Should be at Sam and Cas’s side, laughing and joking with them, making fun of the other hunters and their stupid, dyed in the wool prejudices. Instead he can’t even fucking look at Cas, and Sam is pissed with him because he’s treating Cas like shit. He deserves it. He fucking deserves to be drinking, lonely and tired and sad, on his own in a strange city.

He drinks far too much, far too quickly. Doesn’t even realise there are tears in his eyes until the bartender asks him if he’s okay. Dean mumbles something, doesn’t know whether it’s words or not. He tries to order another whiskey, the alcohol was supposed to make him numb, not make this worse. The bartender doesn’t quite laugh at him, but she does ask him for his phone.

“Is there anyone I can call for you, or am I getting you a taxi? She asks.

“I need… Cas… sorry, man. I’m shit.” He slurs.

“You want me to call Cas?”

Dean isn’t quite sure what she’s saying, but he wants Cas. He fucking needs Cas.

She unlocks his phone, thumbs through his contacts until she finds a number saved under the name of Cas.

“Dean? Is that you?”

“No, this is Katie, the bartender.”

“Oh, shit. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine, he’s just very drunk. Can you come pick him up?”

“Of course. Where are you?”

She rattles off the street address and name of the bar, hangs up, and addresses Dean.

“He sounded pretty worried about you.”

“Who?” Dean’s swaying back and forth, having trouble keeping her in focus. Has no idea what she’s talking about.

“Your friend, Cas.”

“S’not my friend. Boyfriend. Was. Maybe. Fucked it up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Miss himmmm.” Dean lays his head on the bar, hums quietly to himself. She leaves him be. His friend or ex or whatever will be here soon. Then Dean’ll be his problem.

Cas takes a taxi to the bar, rushes inside and over to where Dean is slumped.

He flags Katie down. Rude, but he seems pretty worried so she’ll let it slide.

“Can I get a water for him, please?”

“You can try, but he won’t drink it.” Katie works in a bar, like she doesn’t know how to sober someone up. C’mon.

“Dean?” Cas’s voice is gentle.

Dean perks up.

“Cas!” He tries to hug him sloppily. Wants to kiss him, but even through his drunken stupor, doesn’t think that’s something he’s allowed to do at the moment.

“Why’re you here?” Dean slurs.

“I’ve come to take you back to the motel.”

“Don't wanna go. Stay here. Sleep here.”

“You can’t stay here Dean. Please.”

“Fine.” He sighs theatrically, takes the glass of water Katie has just settled in front of him. “After I finish this.”

He slugs it down, gets halfway and grimaces.

“S’not beer.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you need to sober up. We’re hunting tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah. Oops.”

Dean finishes the water, and then three bags of chips. Cas half carries him to the Impala, winds down the windows and drives around and around, until Dean has started to sober up a little.

He’s quiet the whole ride back. At one point Cas thinks he sees his shoulders shaking, but he doesn’t look, doesn’t ask.

They get out of the car and Cas tries to escort Dean to his room, leave him there. Dean stops him, grabs his wrist and pulls him back. He looks remarkably sober now, especially considering the state he was in before. Cas thinks he’s still a little overemotional, though.

“Wait Cas.”

“Dean, you need to go to bed.”

“I fucked up, man.”

“Please, Dean.”

“No. I’m being shit, and pathetic and dumb and you deserve so much better than someone who’s too fucking afraid to hold your hand in front of a bunch of hunters.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“I’m a fucking piece of shit coward.”

“You’re not a coward, Dean. Not wanting to out yourself doesn’t make you a coward.”

“It’s not— it’s not that I don’t want to. I do, I fucking do.” He pulls in a shaky breath. “And I’m so fucking ashamed of myself for hiding it, hiding you, like this is some dirty little fucking secret. Like it’s you I’m ashamed of, not me, but I can’t stop. Every time I go to touch you, I can see one of them there, thinking, what would his dad think. His fucking faggot son.”

Cas scrubs at his eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with not being ready, Dean.”

“Yeah, there fucking is, if it’s making us both this miserable.”

“It’s only for a few days, Dean.”

“This time.”

Cas shrugs.

“How often do we run into other hunters anyway? Once in a blue moon. I’m sure I can manage to keep my hands off you for that long.” His tone is wry, glib. It’s misjudged.

“Don’t shrug this off, like it’s nothing. I saw you earlier. You were hurt, I _really_ fucking upset you.”

 “You were ignoring me, flirting with someone else. I figured it was for show, but you were very convincing.”

Dean winces.

“Shit, shit. I’m sorry, Cas. About all of this crap.”

“It’s fine, Dean. Maybe a bit more warning next time.”

“Yeah, I know. I sprung it on you.”

“No, Sam sprung it on me, you wouldn’t come near me.”

Dean curls in on himself even further and Cas curses. Shit. He doesn’t want to make this fucking worse.

“I understand why you’re doing this, I do, Dean. And I don’t like it, but I can handle it.”

“I’m sorry, man. It won’t happen again. It won’t.”

He looks so dejected, like a dog beaten to within an inch of its life and still crawling back home.

“Can I touch you?” Cas asks, softly.

Dean looks around quickly, checking the coast is clear. He doesn’t see anyone so he nods; lets Cas fold him into an embrace. It’s only been a day, but Dean missed this touch so much. He wraps his arms around Cas, burrows in tight, like he’s trying to make a home amongst his ribs and the bruised flesh of his heart.

It’s not enough, though. Dean pulls away, takes another quick look around, and then dives in for a kiss, quick and fierce and taking Cas entirely by surprise. It doesn’t last long, they’re both too nervous of getting caught. But it’s enough, hopefully, to take them through to the next day. All but one of the hunters are here now, and the other is set to arrive very soon. Tomorrow they’ll take out the demons, and then they can split and never see any of these people again.

 

*

 

Cas ducks to the side and lunges, his angel blade scoring a deep trench along the demon’s chest. It hisses, collapses to the floor and extinguishes in a crackle of white static.

He takes a moment to gather himself, does his best not to glance over at where Dean and Sam are fighting, elbow to elbow. He’s trying not to be bitter that he’s not there too. Instead he’s an island – undefended and with no-one watching his back – in the sea of demons thrashing violently around them.

Something slams into him from behind, knocks him to the floor. He tries to scramble to his feet, but he’s too slow. A demon reaches down, grasps him by the neck and lifts him up with one hand, the other pinning his right arm tight.

He doesn’t try and headbutt this demon. He’s learned his lesson. Instead he looks frantically around the room, to see if there’s anyone watching, anyone who’ll be able to help him. He makes eye contact with Buck, standing just behind the demon, almost close enough to touch them. He’s the only hunter who isn’t currently occupied with something else.

He shrugs, turns away, little smirk catching at the corner of his mouth.

The demon squeezes Cas’s hand until he drops the blade, stoops to pick it up. It’s going to kill him with his own goddamn weapon. Fuck irony.

“SAM!” He tries to shout over the din, but the demon tightens its grip on his throat, reduces him to a gasp. Sam doesn’t hear him, too busy grappling with his own demons. Dean is facing the other way, deliberately avoiding looking at him, or just coincidence, Cas doesn’t know.

He starts to whisper an exorcism and the demon snarls. It squeezes his throat tighter, so that air can barely even escape it. Cas tries to bite down, make it let go. Doesn’t succeed.

But it doesn’t matter. It was only a distraction.

His free hand, which hadn’t been scrabbling ineffectually at his neck, no matter how much it might have looked that way, finally gets hold of the vial of holy water that hangs on a loose chain. He yanks it off, flicks the lid open with his nail, and throws the contents in the demon’s eyes.

It’s not much, but it’s enough to make it let him go. Cas grabs his weapon back, stabs it through the demon’s heart and lets it slide backwards, off his blade and onto the floor.

He doesn’t confront Buck now. This is not the time, but there will be a reckoning. He does keep a careful eye on him, though, watching his back against hunters as well as monsters.

Twice Cas thinks he sees Buck let a demon get past when he could easily have intercepted it, both time the monster heading in Cas’s direction. Cas has no idea what he’s done to earn this sudden enmity, not when this morning Buck was, once again, offering to share his porn. It makes Cas wish, now more so than ever, that Dean had his back.

If he does die here, he’s coming back as the most vengeful of spirits. And it’s Dean’s ass that he is going to haunt.

Sam kills the last demon, and while all attention is on him, Cas picks his way over the corpses and to where Buck is now standing.

“S’up, Cas.”

Cas punches him with all the strength in his fragile human body, wishing now that he still had angelic weight to put behind the blow. He hits Buck neatly in the middle of his face, breaking his nose with a wet crunch. The room goes silent, and Cas realises that perhaps he isn’t being as subtle as he could have been.

Buck folds over with a yell, but it’s not a bad enough break to put him out of commission totally. This isn’t his first punch to the face. He’s clearly furious, but he doesn’t lash back out, stands up and spits out blood, fixes his gaze on Cas, all full of righteous indignation.

“You mind telling me wha’ that was fer?”

Dean won’t meet Cas’s gaze, but Sam looks worried.

“You tried to kill me. Knocked me over, watched as a demon tried to eviscerate me.” Cas snarls, voice rough and croaky from his throat injury.

For a minute Cas thinks Buck is going to deny it, but then he shrugs.

“So what if I did? What’s one less dirty little faggot roaming the streets?”

“He’s not—” Dean starts to defend Cas, and Buck spins around, silences him with a sneer.

“That what he tell ya, is it? Last night, while you were sticking your tongue down his throat?”

Dean’s face blanks, devoid of expression as the world plummets out from under him. His extremities are tingling and his stomach roils and heaves. It takes everything he has not to throw up on his shoes. He doesn’t even hear the next words over the ringing in his ears.

“If your daddy could see you now. The great Dean Winchester, and his dirty little faggot boyfriend. You develop a taste for gettin’ things rammed up your ass in hell, didja?”

Dean might be about to fall off this plane of existence, but Cas is utterly present and seeing only in shades of red. He lunges forward, aiming to break every other part of Buck’s body. Sam grabs hold of him, pulls him back and pins him tight. It wouldn’t take much to make him let go, just the right word, but Cas is past words, too caught up in his own fury to realise that Sam’s hands are shaking too, with the exact same barely contained anger.

“Lookit. He has to get his fag boyfriend to defend him.”

Buck lunges forward, drives his fist at Cas’s face. Sam lets Cas go a second too late for him to defend himself, and there’s a sickening noise as Buck pays forward his nose injury.

That finally snaps Dean out of whatever alternate dimension he’d retreated to. He lunges forward, grabs Buck in a headlock and bends his arm back until it threatens to snap. Cas makes an aborted forward lunge, and Sam restrains him again.

“You’re right. I have been to hell. And I came out the other side, too. Went to Purgatory – evil sonafabitch monster heaven in case you don’t know what that is – and I did the same. I’ve stopped the apocalypse, more than once. And so has my ‘fag boyfriend.’ If you’ve got a problem with either of us, come and fucking get it.”

His words sound bold, but Sam and Cas can see the fine trembling of his hands. The flighty, half-wild look in his eye. He’s still panicking, still afraid, he’s just in autopilot save-the-family mode.

A few of the other hunters look uncomfortable with proceedings, but no-one looks like they want to intervene, be the first to speak.

And then someone spits. She’s youngish, with dirty blonde hair. A disgusted frown pulling at the corner of her face.

“Filthy fucking faggots.”

“Say that again.” Cas hisses.

“Or what? I’m not afraid of you, queer.”

 As if to prove it, she lunges forward. Sam gives up, let’s go of Cas. The sudden lack of containment takes him by surprise and he surges forward, collides with another sneering hunter. The guy reacts with violence. As do those around him.

Dean lets go of Buck, kicks him out of the way and dives into what has suddenly become a brawling mass of hunters, in search of Cas.

He finds him in the thick of it, blood streaming from his nose and coating his knuckles, taking out all of the pent up frustration and rage of the past few days on any living body that gets close enough.

Dean sees someone throw a punch out at Cas from his blind spot, aiming for his already injured face. He intercepts the asshole, grabs his arm and flips him to the floor.

“Not today, buddy.” He grunts, as the guy rolls out of the way

He sidles up beside Cas, mutters to him.

“Don’t you ever get sick of starting fights?”

Dean blocks a jab to his ribs, kicks the guy backwards and into one of his fellows. Thankfully everyone here seems to be fighting weapon-less. It’s one thing slicing up a demon, it’s entirely different doing it to another human. Even if they are a “dirty fucking faggot.”

“I didn’t start it.” Cas grunts back.

“Uh. You threw the first punch.”

“I was provoked.” Cas scowls, shoots Dean an annoyed side-eye, and then ducks quickly out of the way of yet another blow.

“Yeah, you were.” Dean says softly. This is kinda his fault. Cas has been hurt – luckily not fatally – because Dean wasn’t watching his back. Because Dean was trying not to be aware of him, left him to fight by himself with no defence and no backup.

“I’m sorry.”

“We’re not having a moment in the middle—” Cas twists to the side to avoid a punch, sends another back “—of a brawl.”

“I am sorry, though.”

“Dean—”

Whatever he’s about to say is lost as someone lands a vicious kick to his knee. Cas crumples with a groan. Dean takes out the offending douche, focuses less on attacking and more on defending Cas until he’s ready to stand again. They stop talking, too distracting, and instead fight side by side. It’s simple, easy. They fit into a pattern, moving comfortably together and settling into a vicious rhythm of blow and counterblow until Sam’s gigantic frame heaves into view.

“Alright Rocky squared. Time to go before one of us gets _more_ hurt.”

He half leads, half drags them away, back to the Impala. Dean grumbles slightly, it’s been a while since he’s had a good fist fight without fearing for his life, but a quick glance at Sam’s pissed off expression shuts him up.

Oh yeah. He’s in the doghouse.


	7. Contextless and Freewheeling

They make a quick stop at the motel to grab their stuff, and then Sam drives them to another one halfway across town, on the principle of it’s probably not a great idea to stay in the same place as a group of people you’ve just tried to kick the shit out of.

Sam gets the room, because he’s the least bloody, and they stumble in and take stock. Two beds, one king and one pull-out sofa thing. Not ideal, but it’ll do.

Dean has a black eye starting to show and he can feel some bruising along his ribs; Sam is walking with a slight limp and favouring his left hand, but Cas took the brunt. There are livid strangulation marks around his neck, his nose is possibly broken, his knuckles are all but stripped of skin, his chest and arms are covered with cuts and bruises of varying sizes, and his knee is fucked.

Dean hits the head, and by the time he comes back Cas is slumped on the bed, eyes closed.

“Hey, buddy.” Dean’s gentle tone turns the casual endearment into something much more intimate, affectionate. He sounds soft, sad, regretful.

He makes Cas sit up, checks his nose first. It doesn’t feel broken, just swollen, so he grabs him some ice and instructs him to hold it there. Cas tries to scowl at him, but it hurts too much so he slackens his features. He chooses to express his displeasure with a flick to Dean’s ribs.

“What was that for? I’m trying to help!”

“I have to take it out on someone.”

“Uh, I think you already took it out on half the hunters in the Chicago area, Cas, judging by the state of your knuckles.”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Let me patch you up first.”

Cas grunts. Now that the adrenaline has worn off he’s tired and achy and everywhere on his body hurts, apart from one small spot on his thigh, which itches instead. He just wants to put his tongue in Dean’s mouth for a little bit to distract himself, and then he wants to fall asleep and not wake up until he is completely recovered.

Instead he allows Dean to pull off his boots and jeans, lifts his hands up and winces in pain as Dean shimmies his t-shirt over his head so he can get a proper look at his injuries.

Sam looks up from where he’s sitting, cleaning the denim fibers out of his leg wound.

“Do I need to make myself scarce?”

Cas snorts, winces.

“I’m just dealing with his wounds. Unless that offends your delicate sensibilities?” Dean says.

“No, no. Carry on. And feel free to take that bed, Cas. I’m good on the sofa.”

Cas doesn’t have the energy to be polite and turn it down. He just mumbles thanks and grits his teeth as Dean gently cleans his wounds.

“I think we got more beat up by those other hunters than the demons.” Sam comments. “I mean, it’s the 21st century, you’d think those jerks would’ve got the memo.”

Dean is quiet for a moment, then he sighs.

“Really? You think middle aged rednecks with guns are gonna be fucking liberals?”

He sounds bitter, like he just wants to let the subject drop.

Sam doesn’t.

“They hunt evil on a daily basis. You’d think they’d be able to tell the difference.”

“They’re jerks. Who cares?” Cas cuts in impatiently. “Now can you _please_ stop fussing over my injuries and get me some painkillers and some alcohol?”

“Alright, Charlie Sheen I just want to make sure nothing gets infected.”

“I’m fine, Dean. I just need rest.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll get you some Vicodin and then you can crash out.”

He delivers the pills and tells Cas to hold on while he gets a glass of water. By the time Dean comes back, they’re gone.

“Did you dry swallow them?”

“You were taking too long.”

“Jeez. I’m gonna have to watch out for you, aren’t I?”

Cas just grunts at him.

He does, however, speak up when Dean tries to settle himself on the sofa, next to Sam.

“Why’re you over there?”

“Because you’re more bruise than skin right now.” _And it’s kinda my fault_ , Dean leaves unsaid.

“I’m fine.”

“Cas, I don’t wanna hurt—”

“I’m. Fine.”

“Oh for the love of god just get into the bed with him.” Sam snaps.

“The first and only time you will hear Sam encouraging you to join me in bed.” Cas says wryly.

“I still draw the line at inappropriate touching.” Sam bats back.

“Cas, I don’t think—” Dean tries again.

Cas rolls his eyes, starts to climb out of the bed, sways on unsteady feet.

“Woah there! Okay, okay. I’m coming to you, you stubborn bastard.”

Dean settles down on the bed, trying to lie as far away from Cas as possible.

Cas just snorts, shuffles over and lies against Dean. It feels good. Okay, it hurts a little, but he’s in pain all over anyway. At least this way he gets something pleasant out of it.

It’s only been a day or so, it shouldn’t feel so good, such a _relief_ to be held by Dean – who settles his arm gently over Cas’s shoulder and nuzzles at his hair, breathes him in. It shouldn’t feel like he’s finally found home and all of that clichéd bullshit.

Or maybe that’s just the head injury talking.

 

*

 

Cas is half asleep when Dean murmurs into his ear.

“I think we should take a break.”

Cas’s fumbling, half-awake brain sputters, draws to a halt as he tries to parse what Dean means. A break from what, they’re not doing anything. Out of habit he runs through his pop culture rolodex – his first port of call when he doesn’t understand the words coming out of Dean’s mouth.

He lands on Friends. Ross and Rachel. “Maybe we should just take a break.”

His muzzy brain panics, puts together the apparently harmless words with the way that Dean’s been behaving – like he’s ashamed of him, not wanting to touch him even in the safety of a motel room half a mile away from those hunters, even when his secret is out.

Cas has fucked up. He accidentally outed Dean to the entire hunter community, and now Dean’s breaking up with him for it.

Dean must notice him stiffen.

“Hey, you okay? Did I hurt you?” He tries to shuffle away, but there isn’t really space.

“I – I don’t want to take a break.”

“Oh.” And Dean looks a bit crestfallen now. “Okay. Yeah. I’m sure the sea is pretty overrated, anyway.”

“What?”

“The sea. Y’know. Big, wet thing. Full of sharks, etc.”

Understanding clicks.

“Oh. You want to go on vacation ?”

“S’what I said.” Dean frowns. “What’d you think I meant?”

This pop culture stuff is turning into more of a hindrance than a help. Too much stuff with too little context, freewheeling around his head, waving frantically for his attention.

Cas fumbles for a less embarrassing explanation, doesn’t find one.

“That we should take a break from being together.”

Dean laughs.

“Dude, I wouldn’t break up with you like that. ‘Specially not while you’re all banged up from defending my honor.”

“Defending your honor? I outed you to the entire hunter community and then started a brawl.”

“ _You_ didn’t out me, that asshole Buck did.”

“You seem remarkably sanguine about this.”

“I dunno. I’ve spent so long worrying about it, about Dad finding out I was into guys too. Even after he was dead, it was still – what would he have thought, or, what would his friends think? It’s kinda freeing not to be worried about looking over my shoulder and making sure I don’t give anything away.” He shrugs. “That, or maybe I’m just numb now but in a few days I’m headed for the world’s biggest mental breakdown.”

“I promise to hold you through the tears.”

“I don’t really know if another man’s loving touch is really the best thing to calm down a big gay freak-out.”

Cas smiles. “Better than fucking you through it.”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll give you that.”

He’s quiet for a moment, runs his fingers through Cas’s hair.

“So, now that you know what I’m talking about – what do you think?”

“A vacation does sound nice.”

“We’ve earned one, right.”

“Without a doubt.”

“I was thinking somewhere by the ocean. I’ve always wanted to kick back on a beach, relax properly, not just take a quick break between hunts.” Dean volume rises with his enthusiasm.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a vacation.” Cas muses.

“All the more reason, then.”

“Am I invited, or is this some sort of gross sex-honeymoon you’re planning?” Sam mumbles into his pillow.

“Of course.” Says Dean, at the same time as Cas asks, “what’s the difference between a sex honeymoon and a regular honeymoon?”

“Don’t—”

“My inhuman stamina.” Dean winks at Cas, and Sam groans.

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to go.”

“Too late.” Dean crows. “No takebacks.”

Sam shoots Cas a look – I share genes with this asshole, I have to love him. You _chose_ to???

“Where d’ya wanna go, Dean?” Sam asks, because it was Dean’s idea, and he seems to be the most excited about it. He can be allowed to have this.

“I dunno. I haven’t thought that far ahead. I just want to, y’know. Get away.”

“I’m sure Google will be able to tell us which beach is nearest.” Cas says.

Sam and Dean exchange a look, and Cas prepares himself for a tirade of some kind. That’s their _poor idiot angel_ expression.

“We can’t just go to the nearest place, Cas.” Dean says this slowly, like he is talking to a two year old and not a billion year old creature who until not too long ago, existed in multitudes that Dean Winchester could barely comprehend.

“Why not?”

 _Because my brother has an idea in his head now, and god help us all if it’s not perfect,_ Sam doesn’t say.

“Because I’m not throwing away your first ever vacation on some bullshit, dog shit covered fucking shitheap.”

“You managed to use the word shit three times in that sentence.” Cas points out, almost impressed.

“Because I wanted to emphasise how shitty it might be!”

“We could just drive around until we find somewhere that looks nice?” Sam suggests.

“No.” Dean decides, with rather more grave finality than the situation calls for. “We’re doing this right. I’m booking hotels and looking at attractions. It’s going to be awesome.”

Sam sends up a quick prayer for strength.

“You have to consult—” Cas starts.

“It’s going to be a surprise.” Dean cuts him off.

Cas sighs.

“You can only surprise me if Sam gets some input in the planning.” Sam looks up, shoots Cas a “ _keep me the fuck out of this I am not getting between Dean Winchester and his goddamn lists”_ look.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll find him some museums or something.” Dean rolls his eyes.

Cas pinches one of his bruises.

“You will be considerate.”

“Okay! Okay. I’ll make sure we _all_ enjoy it without making it too lame. Happy?”

Cas lets it drop.

Dean stays in bed, because he was asked to, but Cas can practically feel him vibrating with impatience to start planning.

“Go plan your stupid vacation.” He grumbles.

“ _Our_ stupid vacation.” Dean grins, ear to ear, kisses Cas lightly on the lips.

 

*

 

Dean sits at the laptop, muttering to himself, occasionally pulling Sam over to look at something and receiving back murmurs of either approval or disgust.

Cas falls asleep somewhere between Sam pointing out that while he’s sure not all of Texas is full of homophobes and he doesn’t want to be grossly stereotyping or anything, he still doesn’t think it’s a good idea to visit a town where in the last month two LGBT youths have actually been beaten to death, and Dean saying now he wants to go there even more because he has some heads to kick in, and explaining just how in graphic detail – now that Dean’s been outed to the group he feared the most, he seems to have lost all fear in that respect. Or maybe it’s just that his problem was never with strangers, it was always something closer to home.

One minute Dean is railing about how if anyone even looks at him funny, well, he has a trunk full of deadly weapons and a literally give ‘em hell attitude – and the next Cas is aware of silence and a warm weight next to him. Close, but not quite touching.

 _I’m not made of fucking glass._ He thinks irritably, as he presses himself against Dean, entwining their legs and trying to bury his face in the join of Dean’s neck without actually putting pressure on anything painful. He doesn’t do a great job. He grunts and it’s enough to wake Dean up.

“This is why I was on the other side of the bed.” He mutters, without opening his eyes.

“I will bite you.” Cas grumbles.

“It’s not an effective threat if we both know I’ll enjoy it.”

“It is if your brother is sleeping on the sofa.”

“Didn’t stop you before.”

“No.” Cas agrees, but he doesn’t actually do anything. They’re both tired, and he aches all over. He can wait. Probably.

“I could get used to this.” Dean sighs.

Cas doesn’t ask what he means, doesn’t need to. Dean still feels the urge to fill him in, though.

“Waking up next to you, every day. Rest of my life.”

Cas hums in agreement.

Dean flicks him on an uninjured patch of skin.

“When someone says something like that you’re supposed to say the same back, douche.”

“I made a noise of agreement.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Are you determined to turn your life into a cheap romance novel?”

“Why not. It’s been a shit horror movie so far. I could go for some romance. Variety is the spice of life and all that.”

“You realise in a cheap romance, you’d probably lose me to someone else. The person the hero starts off with is never who they end up with.”

“Oh my god, you are determined to ruin this moment, aren’t you?” Dean grumbles.

“Yes.”

“Asshole.”

“Yes.”

They’re silent for a long while, until Cas speaks.

“I’ve done a lot of terrible things, hideous things, things that I will regret until the day I die. There’s no existent force that could salve that regret, but, if anything could come close, if anything could make me choose those twisted paths again, it’d be the certainty of knowing that I’d wind up here, like this. With you.”

 “Jesus, Cas.” Dean’s voice is shaky.

Cas touches his cheek, feels a faint brush of moisture.

“I love you.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Now who’s ruining the moment?”

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing I can say to follow that.”

“I’m sure you could think of something.”

“I love you.”

“See, that works.”

On the sofa, Sam doesn’t know whether he wants to start writing epic poetry, or throw up a little in his mouth.

 

*

 

Cas doesn’t know where they’re going, but he knows it’s far away. They’ve been on the road for nearly fifteen hours straight, with occasional stops to piss or grab an unsatisfying bag of junk food from a gas station.

Sam’s system looks like it’s going into shock, and even Cas, who hangs somewhere between Sam’s aggressive healthiness and Dean’s aggressive attempts to give himself diabetes, has had enough.

“Dean, pull over.” Cas demands.

“Dude, we literally just stopped for a potty break. Piss in a bottle.”

“That was nearly three hours ago, Dean.”

“Huh. Guess time flies when you’re having—”

“Dean, if you don’t stop this car at the next diner I am going to eat the upholstery.”

“Dude, if you’re hungry you shoulda said. We got loads of snacks up front.”

“I don’t want snacks!” Cas snaps. “I want food. Actual food. On a stable surface. I want to stand up and walk around and do anything except sit in this fucking car and have my bones rattled.”

“Shhhh, baby,” Dean soothes the Impala, “he doesn’t mean it.”

“Dean.” Cas’s tone is terse, unamused.

“Okay. I suppose we can spare an hour or so to eat. Where—”

The rest of his words are drowned out by the cheers of relief from the car’s other two occupants.

They end up stopping at a steakhouse, a little bit fancier than the usual roadside diner, but it’s the first place they see that doesn’t look like it’s going to give them all salmonella.

Sam nearly cries when he sees that they offer a half head of lettuce, with choice of fancy dressing, as a starter. He orders one, devours it with the most glee anyone working at the Rampaging Bull has ever seen. It’s a gimmick food, a USP if you’re being all business speak.

No-one’s supposed to actually order it.

Dean watches him with a vague sort of disgust. He’s so distracted by the display that he notices almost too late that the potato skins he and Cas were supposed to have been sharing have instead all but performed a vanishing trick down Cas’s throat.

“You weren’t joking about being hungry.” Dean notes, as he snatches up the last one before Cas can get his paws on it.

Cas shrugs, looks completely unrepentant.

God, but it’s a good thing Dean loves him.

“I’d tell you to leave some room for your entree, but I’m worried if I attract your attention you’ll eat me.”

That earns him a scowl, followed by a whine of pain.

“That was your fault.”

“I dunno, s’not my fault you’re such an angry person.”

They bicker back and forth good naturedly, trying to ignore the wildly inappropriate noises that Sam is making around his lettuce, until their entrees arrive.

Cas falls on his steak like he hasn’t seen a meal in weeks, practically unhinging his jaw to stuff it all in. Dean takes his time, because he paid for this shit, so he wants to enjoy it, thank you very much. He’d ordered an extra side of onion rings, as part of his low key quest to find the best in the US – what, he spends a lot of time in diners, and it pays to have a hobby – and he can see Cas sneaking little glances at them.

He sighs, upends half of the basket onto Cas’s plate.

“One time deal, okay. If you turn into one of those jerks who steals other people’s food because he never orders his own, I swear to god I will dump you by the roadside and never look back.”

“I didn’t steal anything, these were freely given.”

“I’ve got your number, sunshine. Don’t think I don’t.”

Cas just snorts, because, really, when does Dean ever deny him anything?

He tries an onion ring, although Dean notes, it goes down his gullet so fast it’d be a miracle if his taste buds had time to catch up.

“Thoughts?”

“I like these.”

Sam rolls his eyes. He has a hard enough time keeping Dean eating healthily. The last thing he needs is two people with a taste for junk food ganging up on him.

Cas finishes his own onion rings, hooks one off Dean’s plate and removes it slowly, the same way a small child will, testing if they’re about to get a reprimand. .

“You can have one, but after that tough shit. You wanna eat, order your own food.”

Cas grins, flips the ring into his hand and tosses it in his mouth with surprisingly good aim. Dean grins fondly at him and Sam averts his eyes.

 

*

 

After the meal Dean half-heartedly tries to pile them into the Impala.

“No, Dean.” Sam says flatly.

“But we’re still miles away. We need to get on the road.”

Cas grunts a noise of disapproval.

“Dean, the hotel—” Sam tries, is cut off.

“Shhh!”

“The _place we are staying at that may or may not be a hotel_ isn’t booked for another two days. We’ve got tons of time. We _could_ drive all fucking night, get there in a day and then be stuck sleeping in the car.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. We’re getting a motel for the night.”

Dean looks like he’s about to argue, so Cas takes the sensible route. He shifts to stand in front of Dean, slips his hand around to palm at Dean’s ass and bites at his neck.

Dean gulps, casts a look at him that says “I know what you’re doing, but fuck me, you’re hot and it appears to be working.”

Sam grimaces, weighs the merits of buying a spray bottle. He could always fill it with holy water, pretend it was for demon hunting purposes.

 

*

 

Sam manages to corral them to a motel, even manages to book two rooms on opposite ends of the place. He hasn’t had an undisturbed night’s sleep for days, between Dean fucking Cas, and Dean fucking pining for him. Their night at the Midtown Inn Motel with the other hunters was a struggle. Dean wouldn’t shut the fuck up and go to sleep _. Do you think Cas is okay? Are the other hunters treating him right? Man, I wish he was here._ Even when he shut up he was tossing and turning the whole night long.

If it hadn’t been his own sorry fucking fault, Sam might even have felt bad for him.

 

*

 

Sam thrusts the keys into Dean’s hand and beats a hasty retreat.

For someone whose face resembles so much hamburger, Cas is managing to put his mouth to good work. He runs his tongue and teeth over Dean’s clavicle. He keeps trying to nuzzle into him, bury his face in the join of Dean’s neck and shoulder, and then flinching back as he knocks his wounds.

Dean tries to ease him away, but he’s determined, rumbles out a little growl when Dean tries to peel his roving hands away.

“Easy, babe, easy.”

He brings the same focus to sex as he does to everything else – intense scrutiny, as if he’s reduced the world down to Dean Winchester’s flesh and that’s enough for him.

It’s bliss, for someone who’s struggled with the kind of self-worth issues that Dean has. There’s no doubting under that laser scrutiny that you’re the most important thing in someone’s world, no matter how much that little bit of your brain backchats and gripes sceptically.

He digs the cold metal of the key into Cas’s side, and that gets him to pull away.

He hovers, impatient, shifting from foot to foot, while Dean finds their door and unlocks it. He slips through after him, slams it shut.

“Eager.”

Cas grabs him by the belt, pulls him gently forwards and unbuckles it slowly. Dean whines a little, leans forward, lips parting in anticipation. Cas bites at his lower lip, drops the belt on the floor and walks Dean back to the bed, pushes him down onto it. The movement jars his sore ribs and he hisses in pain.

 “Hey, hey. You’ve gotta take it easy, you’re hurt.”

Cas look down at him as Dean grasps his arm in a loose grip, beckons him down too.

“I’m gonna take care of you, tonight. For being so good. Being better than I deserve.”

That raises Cas’s hackles. He fixes Dean in his best glare, starts to say something. Dean gags him with his tongue, chases the little moans and whimpers out of him. And then he stops, gets up off the bed and rummages in his bag.

He can feel Cas’s _I really want to pout but I know if I do it will hurt so I’m going to just look constipated instead and you get the gist, I am not happy about the current situation_ face from the other side of the room.

Eventually Dean finds the lube, pops it open and grins at Cas’s hungry expression.

“You wanna try?”

He lets it hang as a question. Doesn’t want to do anything Cas doesn’t want. Some guys don’t like being on the receiving end, and that’s fine. They’ve no idea what they’re missing, though.

Cas nods slowly, but he doesn’t got lax and compliant like Dean had hoped. He pushes back every step of the way.

“Dude. I’m trying to be gentle and not damage you even more, but I’m not above sitting on you.”

Cas rolls his eyes with a little frown, grimaces in pain as the expression aggravates his bruises.

“Can you lie on your front without it hurting?”

Cas flips over, can’t help the little whine of pain that escapes him.

“Okay, so not that. Flip back.”

He does, gratefully.

Dean settles between his thighs, hefts his legs up over his shoulder and noses at his ass.

“This better?”

Cas draws his knees up, so that Dean can have full access. It hurts a little, but it’s nothing he can’t ignore.

“Much.”

“Excellent.” Dean says, and then goes to town.

He eats him out messily, works him open with his tongue, moaning and huffing with any free breath he has. Cas writhes under him, so much that Dean has to grasp hold of his hips and hold him still, force him to let himself be attended to.

He gives a few playful tugs on Cas’s cock when he pulls off, enough to get him really worked up and desperate, but not enough to provide any satisfaction. See, Dean understands the joys of anticipation, of drawing it out as long as possible.

He opens Cas up the same way, fingers slow and gentle, nowhere near enough what Cas wants.

He feels a sneaky little thrill at the knowledge this is probably the first time Cas has had something up his ass. Takes extra care with him, extra lube and extra time. He doesn’t care if Cas thinks he’s a fucking cock tease or whatever, he just wants to make sure he has no bad memories of this night.

Eventually, as he is want to do, Cas gets frustrated with Dean. With his care, with his gentleness.

“I’m not broken.”

“Never said you were.” Dean breaths back, into his thigh, bites at the firm flesh and tugs a little. Cas thinks he’s just been prepping him, agonisingly slowly and frustratingly but he’s also been exploring.

He’s pretty sure where Cas’s prostate is now, gives it a firm nudge to check. Cas goes rigid, little cut out gasps of “De-De-Dean,” finishing in a petulant snap as he withdraws his fingers altogether.

“S’up, baby? You want something.”

Cas clicks his teeth together, impatient, but capable of waiting. He watches through half closed eyes as Dean takes his own cock in his hand, can’t resists giving it a quick pump at the sight of Cas spread out, debauched, sinful. Waiting for him.

He presses in slowly. Cas hisses at the sensation. Not bad, but unusual, unfamiliar. This is Dean splitting him open, literally forcing his way inside him just like he’s done it metaphorically. It feels strange, but in a good way. An unexplored branch of pleasure.

Dean goes slowly, waits until Cas gives him a little nod, and then pushes further and further in. Until Cas can feel him bottom out.

“How’s that feel, babe?” Dean’s voice sounds strained, like it’s taking a lot of effort not to move, not to thrust and claim and take. Cas wishes he’d just do it, just fucking nail him. But he won’t, because Cas is injured, and this is a first for him. Dean will take it slow and gently, will caress and fondle him, make everything about this center on Cas and not himself.

Oh, but Cas loves him. Loves him so much it’s hard to vocalize. He’ll try anyway. Because Dean expresses his love in the physical, like this. But that’s not a language Cas knows very well. He’s learning though, oh god, is he learning.

Dean strokes his hands across Cas’s flesh, digs in with a subtle bite of his nails, drags his hands over the uninjured parts of Cas’s body, again and again, seeking out sensitive spots, not so sensitive spots. Just grounding himself in touch and sensation. Soon Cas is shuddering, shivering with anticipation and expectation.

This is what Dean had been waiting for. Now, still gently, he starts to thrust. Cas groans, a thick, rumbling sound that he drags out, extends as Dean rocks softly in and out of him. He keeps his pace steady, a long, tender, drawn out rhythm, until Cas is murmuring indecipherable strings of noise, too wrung out for real words or speaking in a language that Dean doesn’t understand.

Cas comes first, with a gasp, and then a long sigh as pleasure floods his body, ebbing away slowly, like the sea at low tide. Dean thrusts a few more times, enraptured by the smug, sated look on Cas’s face, and then he falls over the edge too.

Cas’s eyes flicker open at the strange, new sensation as Dean’s warm come paints his insides. He’s not sure how to describe it, somewhere between pleasurable and neutral. Not unpleasant in any way, but he’s not sure it’s quite pleasant either. Next time he thinks he’ll ask Dean if he can pull out, come on his chest or face instead. Just for the purpose of seeing which he prefers, of course.

He wants to learn the ins and outs of his body, the things that make him feel best. He has a feeling Dean will be more than amenable to that.

“You’re thinking about something.” Dean notes, as he pulls out.

“Experimenting.” Cas replies, with a rough little chuckle.

“No weird rope shit, okay. That’s my line in the sand.”

He dives back into his duffle, comes out holding some wet wipes with a triumphant grin.

“There’s washcloths in the bathroom, but I don’t want to actively try and give you an STD.”

Cas murmurs a noise of assent, frowns when a wet wipe gets dropped onto his face.

“I thought you were going to clean me.” He grumbles.

“I am, you just looked too smug and happy.”

“You’re supposed to want me to be happy.”

Dean, as good as his word, starts to clean Cas up. He’s gentle but thorough, because there’s nothing worse than waking up the next morning with someone else’s crusted jizz in your ass and he speaks from experience.

He finishes, gets into the bed as carefully far away from Cas as he can. Cas kicks his leg, hard.

“You asshole!”

“You can’t just fuck me and run. I demand your affection.”

“You’re like a fucking cat.”

“You fuck cats?”

Dean wants to punch him, but he can’t because he’s injured. Sneaky little son of a bitch.

“I don’t wanna hurt you in the night. I’m trying to be the responsible adult here.”

“Shut up and cuddle me.”

Dean gives in.

“You wanna be big spoon or little?”

“Well, seeing as most of my bruising is on my front, I thought you should lie flat on top of me, just as an experiment to see how crippling agony helps me sleep.”

“Who taught you sarcasm? I’m gonna stab them.”

Cas laughs, rolls onto his side and wriggles until Dean settles against him. It takes a while to find a place where he can comfortably settle his hands without knocking some bruise or other, but eventually they manage it. Cas gives a pleased little hum, drifts right off.

Dean lies awake for a bit longer, listening to the sound of Cas breathing. Wondering at his good fortune. If this is the thanks he gets for saving the world, well, fucking hell, roll on the next apocalypse because he could get used to this.


	8. Dean Winchester, Holiday Fascist

Despite Dean’s best efforts, the Impala rolls into the town of Del Mar, California, two hours after their check in time.

“I told you we shouldn’t have stopped for so many breaks.” He gripes, as the car glides gently down the wide, sunlit streets.

“Dean, they don’t give up your room if you don’t get there on the dot. It’s a check-in _from_ , not a time limited slot or anything.” Sam sighs back, having had this little fight too many times over the past few hours to say it with any feeling this time.

“Dude, we’re paying for this. I wanna make the most of it.”

“With cash from stolen credit cards. Not like we earned it.”

Cas mumbles something in his sleep from the back seat, and Dean’s attention is diverted. He turns to look at him fondly.

“This’ll be good for us all. About time we had a break.”

“I’ve forgotten how to relax.”

“I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

 

*

 

The receptionist at the Ocean Inn takes one look at them; Cas’s beaten up face, Sam’s limp, Dean’s black eye, and stammers politely.

“Uh- uh-uh, would, um, would it be possible for you to pay up front, please sirs?”

Dean bristles slightly.

“Are you saying we don’t look trustworthy?”

“N-no, it’s just—”

Sam steps in, lies smoothly before Dean’s righteous indignation denies them a bed for the night.

“I’m sorry, it’s just, we were mugged on the way here, dinged up pretty bad – poor Cas here took the worst of it trying to defend us. We came out here to relax and recover, my brother’s still a bit stressed from it, as you can see.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” She sounds genuinely sympathetic. “But I am still going to have to ask you to pay up front. It’s the hotel’s policy.”

“That’s fine.” Sam assures her.

Dean tosses his head indignantly, but he does dig his wallet out of his jeans.

“I’ve got it all in cash.” He says tersely, “y’know, in case you were worried about my card bouncing.”

“Oh, that’s fine, it won’t be—”

He counts out the bills, stacks them neatly on the desk.

Of course, he’s not just paying in cash to be a pain in the ass. The problem with fake credit cards is they don’t work great if you stay in one place. They’re paying for pretty much everything in cash here, but it’s a coastal tourist town, that shouldn’t attract too much undue attention. Hopefully.

“Oh, uh, thank you, sir.” She stammers, and suddenly Dean feels like a little bit of an ass. She’s just trying to do her job, for fucks sake.

“Sorry. Just, long drive, bad week.”

She doesn’t say much to them after that, processing their money, getting their signatures, and taking a significant damage deposit.

After what feels like hours of puttering around, she finally hands over the keys.

“You’re in the two bedroom king suite. Just follow the signs. Enjoy your stay.”

 

*

 

Any lingering irritation on Dean’s part is swept away the moment they get into their suite.

It’s _gorgeous._

The door opens onto the living room, with roughly sanded wooden floorboards, covered here and there by thick, plush rugs. Dean immediately kicks his shoes and socks off and goes to stand on one while Sam and Cas look on, bemused. He wriggles his toes and grins at them.

“Dude, it’s so soft!” He looks at Cas with a leer. “I bet you wouldn’t even get rug burn from these.”

“No! No sex acts in communal areas. You have your own room!”

Dean sighs, making a mental note to work out which rug will least be missed and maybe haul it into the bedroom.

There’s a woodstove in one corner, next to a surprisingly large TV. It looks out of place in the rustic charm, but then again, Dean supposes that there isn’t much to do here if it decides to fucking piss it down with rain. They might be glad of it later.

While Dean’s busy cataloguing the room, Cas is eyeing up the couches. There are two of them, both angled towards the TV. They look shabby, a little out of place even, but when Cas flops down on one he lets out a groan of pleasure. Rough around the edges, but the most comfortable thing he’s ever had the pleasure of parking his ass on. He lies down flat, tries to burrow his way into the cushions.

Dean laughs, grabs his hand and pulls him out.

“C’mon you. We have two weeks to kick back here. Explore first, naptime later.”

Cas lets himself be pulled to his feet and they troop around the room together, opening cupboards, poking at bookcases and marvelling at the difference in quality between this and their usual rooms.

“There’s no mold, Sammy!” Dean exclaims. “No funky smells. I bet I could even take a fucking black light to this place and not throw up in my mouth.”

Sam bets they’d see quite a bit if they took a black light to this place, the king bedroom especially, but he doesn’t say anything to ruin Dean’s fun, just nods in agreement as they move on to the next room.

It’s a kitchen/ dining room combination. Not quite as well equipped as what Dean has to work with in the bunker, but there’s a welcome basket full of fresh meat and eggs and local ingredients in the fridge that has him positively salivating.

Propped delicately on the counter is an invitation to a barbeque that night at the Inn’s private backyard. It mentions a fire pit.

God, but they forget that sometimes normal people like to gather around an open fire for fun, not to put a monster to rest, or for a fucking funeral.

“Whadd’ya think?”

“Might be nice.” Sam ventures. “To have some positive memories of standing around an open fire.”

Dean snorts.

“Cas?”

“A barbeque sounds fun?” Cas ventures, uncertainly.

“You haven’t had one of those either, have you?” Sam asks with a little grin.

“No.”

“That settles it.” Dean decides. “We’re going to a barbeque, we’re gonna fucking mingle with tourists, we’re gonna be normal. It’s gonna be great!”

The next room is Sam’s bedroom. It has two twin beds. He looks at Dean in askance.

“It was either that or have you in a pull-out in our room, and, uh, I didn’t think any of us were gonna want that.”

“Single beds though, seriously?”

“They’re extra-long?”

“We could push them together.” Cas suggests.

“This is totally a kid’s room. You stuck me in a kid’s room.”

“It’s not a kid’s room. There’s no like, dinosaurs or paintings of boats on the wall.”

Sam grunts, but he’s not actually annoyed. He just likes winding Dean up.

The room is actually nice. The beds are long enough that for once he might not be hanging off the end. There’s a quaint little painted wooden bedside table, with an eco-friendly lamp and a stack of old books. He waits until Cas and Dean slip out of the room and picks one up, opens it gently and inhales deeply.

Cas’s knowing voice floats back into the room.

“It’s the smell of the glue decaying, Sam. You love the smell of dying books.”

Sam doesn’t even ask how Cas knew what he was doing. He might not be an angel any more, but he still appears have some prescient senses. Dick.

He puts down the book and follows Dean and Cas to the last room, their room.

It’s by far the nicest, but he refrains from making any snide comments. He actually encouraged Dean to pick the king suite over the other, less expensive options. They all deserve nice things, and Sam is basically a saint, so he doesn’t mind being stuck in the twin room. For all his jibes, it looks nice, and the bedroom is just a place to sleep, or not, if he gets lucky.

And, speaking of getting lucky, the room positioning is perfect. The two bedrooms are as far apart from each other as can be, at opposite ends of the suite, with a living room in between. Hopefully far enough away not to have to hear a single thing. And if not, well, he brought his headphones.

Dean and Cas’s bed is immense, epic. Dean bounces up and down on it gleefully, pulls Cas on top of him with a grin.

“Ow! Shit, Dean!” Cas braces himself and pulls back.

Dean is mortified.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I forgot you were hurt.”

“My face is purple and you forgot I was injured?”

“I’m not used to it, man. Used to be no matter how bad things got, snap your fingers and you’re golden.”

 “Not anymore.” Cas says.

“Not anymore.” Dean agrees, with a little melancholy.

The mood seems in danger of taking a sudden dive, but then Cas just shrugs.

“I have no regrets.”

He stretches out on the bed beside Dean, and whispers something in his ear. Dean blushes, and Sam takes that as his cue to make himself scarce.

 

*

 

 Sam heads to their shared bathroom, planning to shower off all the road grit and dirt. There’s a luxurious looking claw foot tub taking up most of the space, but he avoids that for the time being. Baths are only nice if you’re mostly clean to begin with. He doesn’t want to spend an hour soaking in his own grime.

He paws through the bottles of complimentary bath products. Shampoo, conditioner, even shaving foam and razors. He tests one curiously on a little patch of leg hair, and is pleasantly surprised when it glides straight through. Pleasantly surprised, and then slightly worried in case Dean notices and rides his ass about it all week. Brothers are dicks.

Except let’s not think about brothers and dicks right now.

Sam showers and pulls on one of the big, fluffy robes hanging on the back of the door. It has the name of the hotel sewn into it in little fancy gold writing. This is hilarious. Excellent and hilarious.

He shuts the door to his bedroom and the muffled grunts he could just about hear from Dean and Cas’s room cut off entirely. Peace. Blissful peace. He drags the two beds together and then flops down, pillows his head in his hands and definitely, 100% does not fall asleep.

 

*

 

Sam wakes up from his definitely-not-a-nap to Dean hammering on the door.

“Barbecue’s in ten, sleeping beauty. Get up and get presentable or we’re going without you.”

Sam stumbles up to his feet and looks through the clothes in his duffle. What the fuck do you wear to a barbeque?

The answer turns out to be the only t-shirt and jeans you have clean. They are definitely going shopping tomorrow. He doesn’t even have flip-flops or trunks or board shorts or anything. It’s jeans and t-shirts and work boots or bust. Not exactly fucking beach attire. He can’t imagine Dean and Cas are much better, either. He doesn’t think Cas even owns that many of his own clothes, what with them lurching jaggedly from one hunt to another. Yeah it might be cute that he just pinches all of Dean’s shit, but it’s not healthy not to have your own stuff.

“SAM!”

“Yes! Yes!”

He comes out of the room to find Dean and Cas sitting on the sofa. They’re as shabbily dressed as he is, so at least if they make a bad impression, they’re going to make it en-masse.

 

*

 

There are something close to fifteen adults standing around a burning fire, a handful of kids running around playing rough and tumble, some sitting in corners with Gameboys , and one shy little boy holding his mother’s hand in a death grip so tight, her dark skin is turning pale under it.

Dean and Cas are holding hands, and as people turn to look at them, Dean suddenly feels himself flush red, waiting for the backlash. He just grabbed Cas’s hand and strolled on out here, didn’t think about the consequences of that, or of the way he looks. He’s ready to bolt back to their room, when the mom with the little boy hefts him up to her hip and comes over, smiling.

“Hi, you guys are the new arrivals, right? I’m Kayla, and this little monster is Alex.” She has a Californian accent, a local then.

“I’m Cas, this is Dean, and this is Sam.”

“Hey, Cas, Dean, Sam.” She holds out her spare hand and shakes with them all in turn. “I’m in charge of this place, so any questions or concerns, you come to me. And you two,” she nods at where Cas and Dean are still holding hands, “anyone gives you trouble for that, let me know and I’ll sort it out for you.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Dean is blushing furiously.

“God, but you’re a cutie, aren’t you?” She laughs at him, but not unkindly. “You all seem like you’ve seen some action. Anything I should know about?”

“No. Nothing that’ll disturb your peace.”

“Good, good. You guys look like you need a place to recuperate, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you that if you’re gonna put the rest of our guests at risk.”

Alex blinks at Cas curiously, pulls his thumb out of his mouth with a slurping noise.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

“Alex!” Kayla scolds him.

“It’s okay.” Cas smiles at him patiently. “I look like a mess, don’t I?” The boy nods.

“That’s because there were some people, and they weren’t very nice. They were angry that Dean is my boyfriend, because they think it isn’t right for men to have boyfriends.” He flicks a glance at Kayla to see if she’s alright with him telling this story, but she’s just looking at him sympathetically. “They said some very unkind things to Dean, and they tried to hurt me and him, and there was a big argument and we all got injured.”

“Oh.” Alex gives his thumb another few sucks and then observes. “Your hand is hurt. That means you fought back.”

Cas nods. “I did.”

“But fighting is bad.”

“It is.” Cas agrees. “But I was very, very upset, and very, very scared, and I let that get the better of me.”

“Fighting is bad, sweetie,” Kayla says softly to her son, “And you should never start a fight, but sometimes people have no other choice. Look at how badly hurt Cas is. Now imagine how much worse off he’d be if he hadn’t defended himself.”

“So you can fight back, but only sometimes?” The boy questions.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“How do you tell which times are which?”

“Most of the time you can’t, and that’s why you should always try not to get involved in any kind of fighting. Because you might think you’re doing the good kind, but a lot of the time you’re really doing something bad.”

And if those words don’t hit home.

Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s hand, sways into him slightly. Dean knows exactly what is going on in his head. Purgatory, thick oily leviathan traces, the struggle that came after.

He leans in, whispers in Cas’s ear, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“Hey, hey. I know what you’re thinking, and we’re past that. I’ve forgiven you, we all have.”

“I wasn’t sure.” Cas whispers back, almost guiltily.

“Hey, what, man. What made you think that?”

“You never said anything, and you weren’t exactly welcoming, for a time. Kicking me out of the bunker, ignoring me for days, sending me off on my own.”

Dean pushes his nose into the join of Cas’s shoulder, apologises with touch, as he often does. Follows it up with words this time, too.

“You know why all of that was, circumstance and shitty inability to stow my crap. Look, I won’t deny that what you did hurt, that things got bad, that we all got a bit fucked up. But man, I get it, you were trying to help, and the world didn’t end.”

“Only just.”

“It’s enough.” Dean kisses him lightly behind the ear and pulls back. He turns a fierce shade of crimson when he realises that there are people looking at him.

“You two are just adorable.” Kayla reassures him gently, clearly able to see the panic on his face. “Now, are you going to mingle if I leave you here, or do you want me to take you round, introduce you?”

“Introductions might be nice.” Sam suggests.

 

*

 

Kayla drags them around with glee. She knows everyone staying at her hotel, and takes especial delight in sharing a couple of choice facts about each guest before dragging them on to meet the next little cluster. They meet Aaron and Jane, who’ve been here “for just a few days” for nearly two weeks now; Clara, Tim and Rich, who all arrived individually but will all be leaving together, winkwink, nudgenudge; Annie and Georgina, who have four adopted kids running around and causing havoc somewhere nearby.

About halfway through, while Scott and Rick are being introduced as two brothers taking a West Coast road trip, Alex gets bored and demands that Cas come with him and play. He wriggles until his mom puts him down. She tries to persuade him that Cas is busy, but he isn’t having it, and Cas is happy enough to let himself be taken by the hand and led away.

The other children want him to be the monster – on account of his looks, but Alex is steadfast.

“Cas is a hero! He can’t be a monster!”

There’s some quick, muted discussion which Cas isn’t partial to, and the children somehow come to the unanimous decision that since Cas has to be a hero, and they can’t be on the same side as Cas, they all have to be monsters.

They take turns, him chasing them all and growling, pretending to trip and stumble just moments before he tackles them to the ground or slays them with his mighty sword. At one point a particularly lively kid, who the others are all calling by his monster name of “Fartweiner,” but who Cas thinks he heard being referred to by someone else as Teddy, gathers them all into a baying mob and they tackle him to the ground.

They’re gentler than they look, all harmless rough and tumble fun, and the moment Cas makes a noise of pain they all back off apologetically.

Dean doesn’t even notice he’s dropped out of conversation until he sees a hand waving in front of his face.

“Earth to Dean.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

The woman in front of him – Sarah, here with her sister Ash, who’s just broken up with her long term partner of unspecified gender (can people stop giving their children unisex names, please, because this is awkward and it’s been far too long to ask), to kick back and get over the cheating sack of shit – laughs. Her accent is Brooklyn born and bred, and her features suggest some recent Asian ancestry. She’s got platinum bleached hair, and the sort of slightly unusual beauty that would usually have Dean giving her the eye and inviting her back to his room for drinks.

What, just because he’s attached, doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to look.

“Don’t worry,” she continues, “if he was my boyfriend, I’d spend all my time staring dreamily at him too.”

“I don’t, I wasn’t—” Dean splutters.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I _said_ it looks like my sister and your inhumanly tall brother are hitting it off. What’s say we wander off and let them get lucky?”

“Yeah, sure. Where’d you have in mind?”

“Depends. Either we rescue your boyfriend or we go prop up the bar and wave as he gets beaten up by grade schoolers.”

“Well my beer is nearly empty, and he got himself into this mess, so…”

“Beer it is.”

“I like the way you think.”

Dean and Sarah order another drink, and then another, lean against the bar and chat away. Dean keeps half an eye on both his wayward brother, and Cas. At some point he loses Sam entirely, and he tries not to go full alert at not being able to see him. He knows where he is – in some remote corner, sucking face with Ash, but he can’t turn off the fucking worry in the back of his head. It’s been a stressful few years.

Eventually Cas comes over to join them, having been granted a reprieve by a small cluster of parents. He’s panting and exhausted, looks fit to drop.

“So much for a relaxing vacation, huh Cas?” Dean grins at him smugly, then yelps when his beer is snatched from his hand and drained dry. Dean gives a token grumble of resistance and moves down the bar to flag down the bartender.

He’s joined a few moments later by Sarah and Cas.

“Your new friend has challenged me to shots.” Cas informs Dean, gravely.

“Dude. No. This is a respectable place! There are like, families and shit. I’m not getting kicked out because you have too many shots and start stripping and dancing on tables.”

Sarah laughs.

“Are you kidding me? The kids are just getting put to bed, those rooms are soundproofed as all fuck, and they always nominate two designated sober babysitters. You’ve got about half an hour before all hell breaks loose.”

“I don’t know whether she’s joking or not.” Cas informs Dean.

“I’m not. I wanted to get the shots in before the bar gets busy.”

“Yeah, right.” Dean’s scepticism is so strong it could bench-press him.

“You just wait, give it two hours and they’ll be doing shots out of your bellybutton.”

“Okay, you are definitely talking shit.” Dean asserts.

She is not.

 

*

 

Dean and Cas stumble back to their room at a little past one. Apparently even parents gone wild go to bed reasonably early – because the kids will be up at the asscrack of dawn whether you’re hungover and sleep deprived or not.

They lean on each other, falling and tripping over everything in their path, each other, even their own feet. It gets so bad that Cas gives serious consideration to Dean’s jokingly slurred suggestion that they just give up and sleep on the grass by the rapidly cooling embers of the fire pit.

They do eventually make it back to their suite, and even to their bedroom. They make a token attempt at sex, pawing at each other, giving sloppy kisses that only land where they were intended about half of the time.

They try and move it further, but Dean is too drunk to get it up, and instead of being any use, Cas just flops Dean’s cock back and forth in his hand, giggling and saying the word ”flaccid” over and over again in different, and appallingly inaccurate, accents.

They fall asleep – or they pass out – drunk and happy, tangled up in each other.

 

*

 

 Sam’s night goes more smoothly. He hits it off with Ash straight away. She’s funny, she’s interesting, and she’s definitely interested in him. She lets him know that for certain the moment Dean and Sarah wander off – leans into his ear on her tip toes and whispers a litany of hideously filthy things she’d like to do to him.

Sam thinks it’s about half tease, half sincere. He can work with that, settles his large hands over her broad hips and growls, “let’s get out of here,” into her ear.

He leads her back to his room, lays her out on the bed and eats her out until she’s screaming, thick, muscly thighs clenched around his head and squeezing tight.

He makes her come once like that, with her fingers buried in his hair and his tongue laving against her clit. He gives her a little bit to recover, draws away from her cunt and tastes the rest of her body. As he does, he lets one gentle finger trail all over her, winding its way slowly down to the dark thatch of hair between her legs. He fondles and tugs at the unshaved wildness of it, revelling in the wiry texture, so different from the oft found smoothness.

He plays for a while, works her back up, and then, when she’s just clutching at the sheets, he withdraws, pulls on a condom and thrusts into her.

It doesn’t take long for them both to come. He’s been close from watching her come the first time, the smell and taste of her, and she was already nearly there before he started to thrust.

“That,” she laughs, as he withdraws and pulls the condom off, “wasn’t half bad.”

He grins, nuzzles and bites into her side, tries to make her come again with just his fingers this time.

This is the thing he loves most about women, their ability to just keep on going. He comes once, blows his load, and that’s him done, there’s no way of getting his cock to fill again. Most women, if you know what you’re doing, you can wring two or three good orgasms out of them. You can keep on going, but it gets to the point where it’s less pleasure and more scratching an itch. There’ve been a few women though, who were insatiable, his tongue and fingers had worn out before they had.

 

*

 

At some point he hears Dean and Cas crash in – all drunken exuberance and loud stage whispers.

“ Shhh!!!” Dean instructs in a giggly shout-whisper. “We’ll wake Sam.”

“I think Sam is busy.” Cas slurs back at him. “Just like we’re about to be.”

“Gross.” Dean interrupts. “Don’t make me think of gross, sweaty moose sex when I’m about to touch your gorgeous fucking cock.”

They clatter back into their own room, shut the door, and, thankfully, Sam doesn’t hear anything else.

 

*

 

Sam expects teasing and ribald jokes when he and Ash emerge from his room the next morning. Instead he’s met with silence, and empty rooms. There’s no sign of either Dean or Cas in any of the rooms of the suite, and there’s no way they’d still be in bed. Well, Cas might be, but it’s nearly midday and Dean’s always been an early riser.

He must be somewhere else in the hotel, hopefully not propping up the bar already. Yeah, they’re on vacation, but there’s a fine line between partying and alcoholism and Sam always worries about which way Dean is going to tip.

He walks Ash back to her room, even though she laughs at him and tells him to fuck off, and checks all the public areas of the hotel that he can remember.

He doesn’t find Dean or Cas, but he does find Kayla. She grins at him broadly, passes over the laden breakfast tray in her hands.

“I was just on my way to your room to deliver this. Figured you boys won’t be in any shape for hot food this morning, so I thought I’d spare you all the pain.”

“I, uh, thanks, I guess.” Sam takes the tray, slightly confused. “I don’t ‘spose you’ve seen Dean and Cas, have you? I can’t actually find them.”

“They haven’t been out of the hotel; I’d wager they haven’t been out of their rooms either. I’d be surprised if they’re up already, after the night they had.”

“Huh.”

Sam bids her goodbye and returns to the suite. There’s no sign of Dean, but Cas is sitting at the breakfast table, head in hands.

“Hey Cas.” Sam sets the tray down.

Cas groans, looks up at him blearily. There are three little white sticks poking out of his mouth. It takes Sam a few moments to work out what they are – some kind of weird cigarettes or something?

“Cas, why do you have three lollipops in your mouth?

Cas mumbles an unintelligible answer around the suckers, sighs, pulls them out with a grimace. They’re all different colours, green, brown, and pink and white. Apple, cola, and strawberries and cream. It can’t be a pleasant combination.

“To cover the taste of death.” Cas says, in a voice even more gruff and sandpaper coated than usual.

Sam hears the sound of throwing-up coming distantly from the bathroom.

“Who’s in there?”

“Dean.”

“ _Dean_ got drunk enough to throw up?”

“Clearly.”

“I didn’t even think that was still possible.”

“Neither did he, and then someone brought out absinthe.” Cas says, with a shudder.

“Where did you guys go after you left here? It sounds wild.”

“We didn’t.” Cas looks forlornly at his candy. “These people are insane.”

“You’re telling me a load of parents with small kids got you hammered on absinthe? Yeah, right.”

Cas nods, grimaces at the spike of pain caused by moving his head and resolves not to do it again.

“But I saw like half of them up and about with their kids this morning.”

“Then they must be demons, or alcohol spirits or something.”

“Yeah.” Sam says. “Or maybe the two of you got drunk under the table by a load of suburban moms and dads.” He crows.

“Shhh. Inside voices.” Cas mumbles, and then stoppers up his mouth again.

“I am never gonna let Dean live this down.” Sam’s tone is far too gleeful and it’s making Cas’s head hurt.

There’s a flushing noise from the toilet, and Dean comes stumbling out of the bathroom, pale and unsteady looking.

“I haven’t been that drunk since I was fifteen. Feels like a Wendigo crawled in my mouth and died.”

Cas grunts a vaguely agreeing noise, lays his forehead against the table.

Dean sits down next to him, not quite touching.

“So,” Sam begins in a loud voice.

He gets a lollipop and a fork thrown at him for his trouble.

“Well, I was gonna see if you guys wanted to go down to the beach, but clearly you vile degenerates need to go back to bed and sleep off your disgusting hangovers.”

“Fuck off.” Dean mumbles.

The vile degenerates don’t go back to bed. They drag themselves away from the table and slowly lower themselves onto the sofa, where they tangle up together under a blanket. They watch Star Trek, and doze, and moan, and resentfully drink a bit of water and crunch up a few antacids. Sam leaves the breakfast tray – orange juice and pastries – on the floor within arm’s reach, because he is a literal saint, and wanders back to Ash and Sarah’s door to see if either of them (but mainly Ash) wants to do anything.

Ash answers the door, as bright and awake as Sam. Sarah groans something from where she’s lying on the floor.

“She says the cold tile is the only thing keeping her spirit from evacuating her body right now.” Ash explains.

Sam nods. He’s been there.

“She also said that if I were to see Dean or Cas, I was to break their kneecaps, and not under any circumstances let them persuade me to do bodyshots off either or both of them.”

“Bodyshots, eh?”

“Almost worth the pain apparently.”

“I never saw Cas as a bodyshots kind of guy.”

“No, but Sarah is a bodyshots kind of girl. Don’t believe her, she’ll definitely have been the one twisting his arm.”

“You can prove nothing.” The lump on the ground mumbles.

“Want to head down to the beach, Sar?”

“No. I want to lie here and die. Go away.”

So they do.

They don’t actually end up at the beach. They’re on the way when Sam spots a cycle rental, drifts towards it just intending to have a look in the window. Ash notices, drags him inside. Sam tries to grab a road bike, thinking he’s about to go for a casual little cycle around the town.

Ash laughs at him, steers him over to the mountain bike section and hmms contemplatively as she tries to find one big enough for his “abnormally large frame”.

“Wow, thanks.” He pretends to be insulted.

She doesn’t rise to the bait.

Eventually she has to call over the assistant, and they manage to find something vaguely suitable for Sam’s stupidly long legs.

“Being this tall is a curse, alright. It’s really hard to buy clothes and I don’t fit anywhere. Stop laughing!”

 

*

 

They load the bikes into the backseat of Ash’s car and she drives until they hit woodland. Sam tries to follow the signs to the park centre so they can get a map, but she just fucking laughs at him again and tells him to live a little.

He tries to throw those words jokingly back in her face a few hours later, when she casually mentions that she has no idea where they are. She just grins at him like he’s an adorable little moron, and kisses the words back down his throat.

They drag the bikes off the trail and fuck beneath the forest canopy. She pushes Sam to the ground and rides him athletically, informing him with a grin that if anyone is going to get their naked ass covered in leaves, it isn’t going to be her. So, of course he grabs a handful, rubs them into her back and laughs. She tuts at him, moves his hands up to her breasts and encourages him to knead them.

When they’ve finished she lies on the ground next to him.

“See. Would this have happened if we’d had a map?”

“Why do you think I wanted the map? I wanted to try and find a quiet spot, no risk of interruptions.”

She laughs. 

“I like you, Sam Winchester. We’re going to keep in touch.”

“Oh, we are, are we?”

“Yes.” She says, with a warm certainty that makes Sam laugh.

 

*

 

There’s no dinner put on tonight, so as it starts to push mid evening and Sam isn’t back, Dean and Cas realise that one or both of them is going to have to get up and cook. They don’t feel quite as bad as they did this morning, but they also aren’t up to doing anything that isn’t lying down quietly and not doing much.

They hold off as long as possible, until Dean’s stomach lets out a rolling, roiling grumble that makes him and Cas both laugh until their headaches begin to ratchet up again.

“Okay.” Dean mumbles into Cas’s chest. “I’m getting up in three.”

“Three minutes or three hours?”

“Three seconds, dipshit.”

He untangles himself from Cas, who moans unhappily at the loss of contact and heat.

“Yeah, if you don’t like it that much, come with me.”

Cas groans, pulls the blanket over his head.

“Traitor.” Dean mumbles.

He throws together a simple pasta sauce, nothing too rich or difficult to swallow, slops it messily into two bowls. He makes it all the way to the living room without spilling more than a third of each bowl. Tomorrow’s problem.

Cas looks up at him, only his eyes visible between the blanket and his messy hair. Dean can’t help the strangling, chocking happiness working its way up from his chest. He loves him. He’s loved him for years and now, finally, he’s allowing himself to feel the true depths of it.

“Move your ass.” He gripes at him, and Cas sits up with a grimace.

Dean hands Cas his bowl, settles down, pressed in a tight line alongside him.

“I’m never drinking again.” Cas says.

“I promise it isn’t always this bad.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“At least we know Sarah’s probably suffering just as much.”

“True.”

“Serves her right.”

They pick at their food, hangover battling with raging hunger. Dean eats a little too much, and as Cas puts their bowls on the floor and flops down gently on Dean’s lap, he laughs.

“It sounds like you have the sea trapped in your stomach.”

“I can’t help it, man. It can’t deal with the starvation and then sudden overfeeding.”

“I think you’re actually vibrating.”

“If it bothers you, move.”

“No.”

“Then shut your whining.”

Cas tugs at a strand of Dean’s hair. Dean flicks his ear in return, and then shuffles down the sofa so that they’re both lying relatively comfortably. Which isn’t easy, when Cas’s front is 90% bruise.

They fall asleep together, hungover as fuck, but happy despite it.

 

*

 

Sam comes back to the suite alone. Ash had wanted to check on Sarah, make sure she hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning or something. She’d promised to see him later, though.

There’s some sort of congealed tomato concoction in the kitchen. Sam takes a taste – better than it looks, he decides. Also one of Dean’s hangover meals, so he’s guessing they still aren’t doing too hot.

He moves quietly into the living room, sees Dean and Cas still on the same sofa he left them on. Cas is lying awkwardly on Dean’s chest, Dean has his arms wrapped around him, appears to be fucking smiling in his sleep.

Sam takes a lot of pictures. It’s too good an opportunity to miss.


	9. Cas's Idea of a Romantic Stroll

The next day sees everyone mostly recovered. Dean wakes up at 7am and starts to carefully extract himself from underneath Cas, which of course wakes him up too.

“No.” He says, without opening his eyes

“No what?”

“No you’re not getting up.”

“I’m wide awake, I won’t get back to sleep.”

“Put the TV on, I don’t care. You’re not allowed to move.”

Dean laughs, cards his fingers into Cas’s hair and starts to rub. Cas groans gently against him.

“Now you’re definitely not allowed to leave.”

Dean can live with that.

They lie there for a few hours, Cas napping intermittently. Dean doesn’t switch the TV on, instead starts first to hum, and then, as he builds up his courage, to sing in a low voice. It’s been a long time since he sang, just to himself, without music. It’s something he only does when he’s happy, when he’s alone and no-one can hear him.

Cas shifts to look at Dean, and he stops, embarrassed. He thought Cas was asleep.

“You don’t have to stop.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I like it.”

Dean blushes.

“I’m not even any good.”

“I like it.” Cas repeats, like that’s all that needs to be said. And maybe it is.

Dean’s saved from having to think up a reply by Sam, coming stumbling out of his room, followed by Ash.

Dean lets out a low wolf whistle. Sam groans with embarrassment, but Ash grins at him, takes an exaggerated bow.

“I’ve decided to keep him.” She informs Dean.

“I’m sorry you had to settle for the second best Winchester.” Dean winks at her.

“Dean, I’m dating you and even I don’t think you’re the best Winchester.” Cas mumbles into his chest.

“Wow. Okay. That is stone cold. You’re making your own breakfast today.”

Cas bites gently at his neck.

“Ow. That wasn’t an invitation to turn _me_ into your breakfast.”

“I want you to cook for me but I don’t want you to move.”

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to let me up for a piss sometime soon anyway.”

Cas sighs the most put upon sigh ever to come out of any human’s mouth, but he does sit up and let Dean escape.

Dean stretches, shuffles off to the bathroom. By the time he gets back, Cas is sitting upright at the table, and Sam and Ash are poking through the fridge and bickering.

“So, should one of us call Sarah, get her in on this breakfast party, or will she still be asleep?” Dean asks, as he bats Sam out of the way and retrieves everything he needs for bacon pancakes.

“On it.” Ash sends her a text, in case she isn’t actually up. She gets a reply almost immediately.

“She’ll be over in ten.”

“Sweet.”

Dean throws together a pretty impressive breakfast, if he does say so himself. Pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, yoghurt, bread and honey. A fucking feast.

 

*

 

They give breakfast a little time to settle, pop over to the nearest beachwear shop, and then they all walk down to the seafront. It’s absolutely packed, loud and full of children running around. Sarah and Ash try and scope out a place to lay down their towels, but there’s not enough space for them all to stay together.

“We could split up, I suppose.” Ash says, unconvincingly.

“Nah. Let’s just pile into the Impala, drive out a bit see if we can find something a bit quieter.”

They drive down the coast, taking a slow and winding route until they finally find a mostly abandoned stretch of beach. Dean refuses to park the Impala too near the sand – practically hyperventilating when Sarah points out the beach car park – so they drop her off in a little way inland and walk.

They spread out their towels on the warm sand, stretch their limbs and settle down for the day. Everything is calm and peaceful for a while. Sarah and Ash read, Sam lies on his back with his head pillowed on his hands and dozes, and Dean takes Cas along the shoreline, shows him how to build sandcastles and moats and all the other things he’s never done himself, but knows you’re supposed to do at a beach.

Dean and Cas return just over an hour later and settle down. Well, Dean settles down. He flops down on his towel with a happy little sigh, buries his toes in the sand, puts in his Walkman and prepares to doze in the sun.

He gets about ten minutes into Zep III and then he receives a sharp poke in the ribs.

He pulls out his earphones, looks in askance at the ex-angel who’s the source of his torment.

“Yes?”

“I’m bored.”

“Just lie in the sun and chill.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to sleep?”

“No.”

“You’re telling me that the grand king of refusing to get the fuck out of bed doesn’t want to sleep for the first time in his life?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what _do_ you want to do?”

“I want to go for a walk.”

“Okay, off you go.”

Cas pokes him in the ribs again. Sam, who up until now has been smothering his laughter with his hand, lets out a snort.

Dean groans, rolls over and kicks himself to his feet.

“Fine. But when we get back I’m going to sleep in the sun and you aren’t allowed to bother me, deal?”

“Fine.”

“Anyone else want to come?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil your lovely romantic walk along the beach.” Sarah looks up from her book with a grin.

Sam shakes his head and Ash just laughs.

 

*

 

There’s a forest, or a nature reserve or something, on the edge of the beach, and Cas steers him towards that.

Dean grumbles constantly.

“First you make me get up, now you’re making me walk in the shade.”

“The beach will still be there tomorrow.”

“So will your dumb forest.”

Cas doesn’t argue back, he just rolls his eyes and fits his hand to Dean’s. That cheers him up slightly, and he stops his good natured moaning and lets Cas talk.

And boy, does Cas talk. Although he wasn’t an angel of creation like some, Hael, Sariel, Zophiel or a hundred others, he still had the basics programmed into his grace. As an angel he knew more than most humans about the fauna and makeup of the planet they live on. Now, as a human, he’s forgetting a lot of it. But he still knows enough to entertain Dean as they trek beneath the leaves.

He points out Japanese Maples, identifiable by their five pointed leaves, laments that they’re seeing them in the summer, when they’re at their most plain, and not the blood red they turn in the autumn. He plucks the strange, tube-like leaf off an Incense Cedar and crushes it between his fingers, offers it to Dean to smell.

Every now and then they come across something that he recognises, but can’t identify, and it maddens him. He doesn’t say anything, but Dean sees him flick quizzical little glances at the more unusual specimens, tilt his head and grit his teeth.

It takes him ten minutes to remember the name of the Coastal Live Oak, and even then he gets stuck there, frowning at it, trying to dredge his too human memory for rest of the missing information.

Dean kisses the back of his neck.

“I don’t mind, if you don’t know.”

“I do know, that’s what’s frustrating.”

“Happens to us all, Cas.”

“I’m not used to it happening to me.”

“I know, babe.”

“Stupid plants.”

Dean laughs. “I can get you a book, if you want. With all this stuff in. Refresh your memory.”

Cas hmms a little noise, neither particularly agreeing or disagreeing with the idea. It sounds like a lot of hard work, and if he tried to keep fresh the pathways of every angelic memory he has, he’d have no time for anything else.

That said, he likes knowing about nature. It feels like a connection, a tether to the place he’s chosen to make his home.

 

*

 

They meander for a little over an hour, but then Cas seems to spot something, a certain rock configuration, or a fucking twig signal in the dirt, Dean has no idea. From then on he directs them carefully, stopping to squint at more invisible signals, dragging Dean on a wide, circuitous route.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere.”

“That’s worryingly vague.”

Cas just smirks at him, carries on dragging.

Eventually the trees start to thin, and they find themselves on a short, abandoned stretch of beach. It looks like it hasn’t seen a human presence in hundreds of years. No footprints in the sand, no abandoned toys or packets or other junk. No signs or steps. None of the little things humans leave behind, in their quest to make the land easier to live on.

There’s a cave at the other end, and Cas pulls Dean towards it, not even stopping to tell him about the fourteen different subspecies of seaweed, or whatever, that block their path. Seaweed is gross, not quite as gross on land as it is in water, but seaweed is gross, and Dean wants it to stop touching his feet.

The cave is bigger than it looked from the outside. Remarkably clean too, no driftwood or seaweed or other junk. Just rock pillars, sand and some weird carved stone thing in the middle. Dean looks around, realises there are initials carved over all of the walls. He wonders over to investigate, notices that they’re all in groups, some of at best guess fifty names, some just in pairs, but all more than one person. Weird.

Cas touches his shoulder, guides him to the centre of the cave and the strange pillar thing. As they get close, Dean realises that it’s a statue of some kind. Of a pregnant looking guy with a massive dong and shapely boobs. Okay. Not something he’d decorate his living room with, but whatever floats your boat.

“What is this place?”

“This cave was sacred, a long time ago. People used to come and give offerings to their god in return for fertility.”

“That dude-chick thing?”

“That’s quite an insensitive way of putting it, but yes.”

“It got a name?”

“Yes, but I can’t remember.”

Dean shrugs.

“Well, I hope it doesn’t take offence, because unless it wants pocket lint or the sand between my toes, I’ve got nothing to give.”

“This god, whether or not it existed, didn’t demand that kind of gift from its worshippers. They offered it their bodies.”

“Like limbs and shit? Gross. Cas, your idea of a romantic stroll needs some serious work, I am telling you.”

Cas slaps him on the shoulder.

“They offered themselves to each other Dean, in the sight of their god.”

It takes Dean a few minutes to process.

“They had orgies. That’s why all the initials are in pairs or groups.”

“Yes.”

“You brought me to an orgy cave.”

“Yes.”

“Deliberately. That’s what this ‘walk’ bullshit was all about.”

“I figured you’d find it embarrassing if I told the group at large that I was taking you to an ancient sex cave, yes, Dean.”

“You horny little devil.”

Cas shrugs.

“God, I love you. I really, do, but there is no way we’re fucking in this cave. I do not want to get sand in my asshole. I don’t want to get sand in your asshole either – because man, that’s gonna involve some serious friction burns for us both.”

Cas pouts at him.

“Look, man, that shit gets everywhere! I appreciate the idea, I really do, and it’s hot as hell, thinking of everyone who’s been here before us, all those names carved on the walls, but yeah. No. We don’t even have lube!”

“I have lube.”

“Where?” Dean looks incredulously at Cas, with his pocketless shorts.

Cas reaches insides his waistband, pulls out a little sachet.

“Concealed pockets.” He explains.

“Okay. Well, still. The answer is no.”

“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything penetrative, anyway.”

“Then why did you bring lube?”

“It used to be much rockier in here.”

“So you were gonna just lay me out on a bed of stones and nail me. Wow. Romantic.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“You love me.”

Dean leans forward and catches Cas’s lips, grabs handfuls of his ass.

“Is that a yes?” Cas asks as he finishes the kiss with a sharp nip to Dean’s lip.

“Yeah. So long as nothing, and I mean _nothing_ goes near my ass.”

“I promise not to finger you while I blow you, even though I know it’s one of your favourite things.”

“Damn straight.”

Cas sinks down slowly to his knees, careful not to put too much weight on the bad one. He mouths a sticky wet, damp patch over the fabric of Dean’s shorts, kneads his ass through them and then scrapes his fingernails down Dean’s legs. He can’t resist brushing, feather light and ticklish, over the back of his knees. Dean jerks forward reflexively, thrusts his crotch in Cas’s face.

Cas bites at Dean’s trunks, pulls them down with his teeth first and then his hands. Dean groans as he watches, Cas making eye contact as he snags the fabric in his teeth.

“You’re killing me, man.” Dean groans out and cups his hand around the back of Cas’s head, gently, mindful of his wounds.

Cas leans into the touch for a moment, nuzzles gently at his hand, and then he latches onto Dean’s cock. No teasing, no build-up. He just takes it in as far as he can, shutting down his gag reflex and letting his throat flutter around the head. Dean moans, and then yelps at Cas starts to hum. It vibrates through him and he tightens his grip on Cas’s hair, holds him there until he stops to breathe.

He reaches up to play with Dean’s balls, rolling them in his hand, teasing his sac but never slipping behind, no matter how much he wants to.

Dean can feel himself drawing near, warns Cas almost too late. He pulls back so that only the tip of Dean’s cock is in his mouth, laves his tongue over the sensitive head, and swallows it down as he comes, throat flexing and gulping.

Dean finishes, pulls him up to his feet maybe a little too roughly, crowds him back against a pillar and kisses the taste of himself out of Cas’s mouth.

“God I wish I could sit on your cock right now.”

“Plenty of time for that later.” Cas says, far more composed right now than he should be. Dean puts a stop to that, shoves his hand down his pants and jacks Cas furiously while he bites at his neck, his collarbone. Cas’s head falls back against the stone as Dean works him quick and rough. He likes it best like this, when Dean works his cock desperately, like all his control is gone and he just needs to be touching Cas.

Dean works his free hand into Cas’s hair, massages his scalp with just a little bit of sharp fingernail, pushes Cas over the edge with a filthy kiss. He comes all over his shorts and Dean’s hand. Dean licks it clean, causing Cas to groan in appreciation.

“Think old whatshisface would’ve approved?” Dean asks with a wry grin as he retrieves his trunks and sinks to the ground.

Cas settles down on his lap, because he can. His own shorts are tacky and gross, luckily there’s a huge expanse of water very close by that he can wash them in.

“I doubt he ever really existed, and even if he did, he’s long gone. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise.”

“You shy of a little public exhibitionism, Cas?” Dean teases.

“No. I just don’t want to share you.” He mouths at Dean’s jaw, kisses him for a little while, and then decides that he needs to clean himself before he goes any further.

He wanders out of the cave, strips naked and washes the come stain off the inside of his trunks, and then off himself. He doesn’t put them back on when he’s done though, props them on a rock to dry and wades back out into the sea. There’s no-one here for miles around, and he wants to go swim naked. So he does.

He waves for Dean to join him, but he doesn’t come immediately, content to watch Cas’s naked ass striding deeper into the waves until it’s all but covered.

Cas grimaces with each step he takes – salt water in his wounds – but he knows it’s good for him. Clean the wounds and all that. He turns around, sees Dean shamelessly ogling him. Well, he’s allowed to do that, he supposes.

“It looks better close up.” He yells back.

Dean smiles, takes his phone out of his pocket, snaps a quick photo and then sets it next to Ca’s trunks, starts wading in to join him.

They fuck about in the ocean for a bit, trying to dunk each other and splashing tidal waves of water back and forth into each other’s faces, until eventually Dean’s phone starts to ring. He tries to wade back to shore and get it, but Cas fucking ninja swims up and grabs his legs, pulls him under. Then he has to retaliate, and it turns into war. By the time he gets back to the shore he has three missed calls, all from Sam. Ah, shit.

He dials him back.

“Yo, Sammy.”

“Thank god, I thought you were dead.”

“Nope still here, not for Cas’s lack of trying though.”

“What?”

“He’s really fucking good at dunking people in the sea, fair warning. Dude swims like a shark.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Where are you guys?”

“No idea. We walked through a forest, now we’re at some abandoned beach somewhere. Cas might know what it’s called, but I ain’t going near him with my phone the little shit mood he’s in right now.”

“’Kay. Well, we were gonna go for lunch in maybe an hour? Reckon you can get back before then?”

“If I can drag our resident fucking angel shark out of the sea, prolly.”

“Cool. See you soon, then.”

“Later.”

He hangs up, waves at Cas to get his attention and beckons him into the shallows.

“Dude. Sam and the girls are going lunch. We should head back. You can frolic in the sea just as easy there.”

“Not naked I can’t.”

“No, but I could do with something to eat, and we can’t do that naked either.”

“Well—”

“Spunk does not count as food.”

“I was suggesting we fish, actually.”

“Yeah, course you were.”

Cas reluctantly pulls on his trunks and they meander back to the beach where they abandoned Sam and Ash and Sarah. Sarah shoots them a relieved look when they make it back, probably because Sam and Ash are necking away like no-one’s business.

“Alright you two, break it up before I get the spray bottle.”

Sam breaks the kiss, snorts at Dean.

“Like you can talk, you hypocrite.”

Dean just shrugs, what can you say, I’m an ass.

They pack up the towels and walk back to the Impala. Dean makes them all shake out their towels on the street, because he’s paranoid, but he can’t do anything about the sand on their shoes and feet. Goddamnit that shit gets everywhere.

“Who’s stupid fucking idea was it to go on a beach vacation anyway?” He grumbles.

Sam and Cas exchange a look, both reply simultaneously.

“Yours.”

“Yeah, well, shut up.”

 

*

 

Their two weeks in Del Mar go by far too quickly. Two weeks of lying on the beach, swimming in the sea, getting hammered once more with the parents gone wild to prove to Sam that it wasn’t just them being pathetic, and lots of lazy, slow mornings full of sex and bacon.

Sarah and Ash leave a couple of days before, and they’re all genuinely sad to see them go. They exchange phone numbers and promise to keep in touch, and, despite the difficulty and how these things usually go they all think they actually might. Sam and Ash especially. 

They pull out of Del Mar a little bit sad to be going, to see the back of Sarah and Ash and Kayla and Alex and all the other guests who happened to pass through at the same time as they did. But also refreshed, relaxed, Cas mostly healed up, and ready for The Holiday: Phase 2.


	10. Nerdvana

** Interstate 5 **

The first time they sail past a turning for Las Vegas, Cas just shrugs, writes it off and assumes Dean knows a quicker way. The second time he assumes the same. The third time he pipes up.

“So, are we not going to Las Vegas?”

“Nope. That a problem?” Dean asks.

“No, just curious. It’s only a few hours away, it’s a place dedicated to two of your favorite hobbies. I assumed it’d be first on the list.”

Sam snorts.

“We already go there every year, pretty much.” Dean says. “You’ll get your chance to see Vegas, just not now. Unless you really want to?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Plus, y’know. I’m not sure Sam could handle the trauma of going back.”

“Dude!”

“Hey, man. I’m just looking after you. Drugged and married to a stalker, that’s gotta leave some bad feeling.”

“What?” Cas asks, incredulous. He hasn’t heard this story, apparently.

“Don’t you dare.” Sam says, as Dean opens his mouth to fill Cas in.

“Dude, it is a _long_ drive to Oregon from here. We gotta talk about something.”

 

** The Goonies House **

“First stop,” Sam reads from their ‘itinerary’. And by itinerary he means scruffy folded up sheet of paper with more crossing out than actual writing. “The Goonies House.”

“Hells yeah the Goonies House.” Dean drums his hands on the steering wheel.

“You are such a fucking nerd.” Sam shoots back.

“Um. I think you’ll find you were the one who pointed out it was on the way.”

“As a joke!”

“The Goonies.” Cas scrunches up his face. “That’s a film?” He knows it’s a film. He’s just fucking with Dean.

“Oh my god you philistine.” Dean groans.

 

*

 

“Well, this is shit.”

“It looks kind of different.” Sam agrees. “I think they’ve had work done.”

“I didn’t realise people lived here.”

“Yeah, I assumed it was like a museum or something.”

“The flag is upside down.” Cas points out, like he’s considering knocking on their door and telling them about their mistake.

“I think it’s a political statement.” Sam says.

“What are they trying to say?”

“I dunno, but they sure hate Obama.” Dean points to the bumper stickers covering the car in the drive.

“Racists or Republicans, you reckon?” Sam asks.

“Dunno. Are they mutually exclusive?” Dean snorts.

Sam whacks him on the arm.

“Play nice.”

“When they stop voting against my rights.”

Sam laughs.

“Are you going to take a picture or not?” Cas asks, bored.

 “Can’t really, those two huge fucking flags are in the way.”

“I can’t believe we drove for 16 hours for this.” Sam says.

“We didn’t drive for 16 hours for this. We drove for 16 hours for Oregon. This was just a stop off.”

“Which _you_ insisted we make.” Cas points out

“So, um, are we done here?” Sam asks.

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, scuffs his feet in the gravel, disappointed, and they all pile back into the Impala.

  

**Oregon Museum of Science and Industry **

“Okay, step one was a bust, but up next we have the Oregon Museum.” Sam is practically bouncing with excitement.

“See! See. I told you there was something nerdy and rubbish for Sam.” Dean turns to Cas in the backseat.

“Museums aren’t rubbish.” Cas says, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the window of the car, drawing the scenery with his finger as it goes past.

“Don’t take his side.” Dean grouses.

“And anyway, you’re the nerdiest person I know.” Cas says, with his shittiest little smile.

“Am not!”

“You speak almost entirely in film references and you _just_ dragged us to the Goonies house.” Cas points out.

“That’s not nerdy, that’s just, pop culture, everyone makes references.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam interjects.

“I will turn this car around.”

“Fine. Drop me and Cas off here and we’ll carry on without you.”

“You can’t have a road trip without a car.”

“We’ll improvise. After all, I’ve got the itinerary.”

“I hate you both.”

 

*

 

They lose Dean to the Earth Hall almost immediately. He pretends to scoff at the Renewable Energy exhibit, but within minutes he’s been sucked into the solar panel display, wandering around and making gleeful, childish noises of excitement as he pokes and prods and learns exactly how they work. Sam can almost literally see the gears turning in his head, and he knows that the moment they’re back in the bunker suddenly everything is going to become solar powered.

Dean finally drags himself away, head full of calculations and projects and ideas. They still have no idea what the bunker is actually powered by. Soon as they get back he’s going to investigate, dig it up bit by bit if he has to. Maybe he’ll install some back up solar generators, just in case. It never hurts to be prepared.

He tracks Cas down to the View From Space exhibit. He’s standing, arms folded and a strange look on his face as he looks down on the world from a satellite’s perspective. Dean comes up and hugs him from behind, hooks his chin over his shoulder.

“What’s eating you?”

“This is similar to how I once saw the world.”

“Oh?”

“It’s strange, seeing it like this again.”

“Good strange, or bad strange?”

Cas hums.

“I’m not sure.”

Dean decides distraction is the key to lifting him from this mood.

“It says at the entrance that this next exhibit is really hands on. Wanna go track a hurricane?”

“Sure.”

Cas allows himself to be manoeuvred through the hall, sending satellites spinning wildly around models of the earth and making all the right noises when Dean points excitedly at pictures of space.

They skip the Life Hall by tacit agreement. Dean’s got better at being reminded of his almost son and daughter, doesn’t go all sad and melancholy any more when he sees kids who remind him of Ben and Emma. Doesn’t mean he wants to spend an hour looking at exhibits on the miracles of raising children.

Their final stop is the Planetarium. Dean starts to moan as Cas steers him towards the front row and settles them down.

“Dude, I live on the road, I see the stars all the time.”

“Not like this you don’t.” Cas accompanies his words with a swift jab to the ribs, starts to wax lyrical about the history of the stars, points out constellations and patterns.

“You remember all the names?” Dean asks, curious.

“Most. Enough to look impressive.”

“Hang on, I never went that far.”

Cas whacks him again.

“There are angels out there, you know.”

“On other planets?”

“I don’t know about that, maybe. If there is life on other planets, there must be angels of some kind watching over them, I suppose.”

“Angels in alien vessels instead of human ones. Angels with tentacles and suckers and weird appendages that we don’t even have a name for.”

“Maybe.”

“If the angels aren’t on other planets, where are they, then?”

“Patrolling the vast nothingness of space, flitting from world to world in almost entire isolation.”

“Must get pretty lonely.”

“More than is conceivable for either of us to imagine.”

They lapse into silence for a while. Dean feels a brief pang of melancholy for the fate of those angels. Sure, most angels are dicks, but he wouldn’t wish that fate on any of them. That extreme isolation. It must be torture.

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s where God has gone.” Cas speaks in a soft undertone. “If he left us to our own devices because he thought we’d be okay, because we were many, we could rely on each other. Maybe he’s travelling the universe with those angels, the ones condemned to a life of emptiness and silence, keeping them company.”

“Sounds nice and all, but if the dude’s omnipresent, that means he could still stick around here and help you guys out too.”

“I know.” Cas can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Dean grimaces, regretting his words. He doesn’t try and salve with a joke like he usually might, just twines his fingers in with Cas’s instead.

“I don’t think we’re getting on too badly without him, to be fair.”

“No.” Cas says, in a tone Dean can’t quite identify. “I suppose we’re not.”

 

  **Seattle**

“Does it ever stop raining here?”

“Don’t think so, Cas.” Dean answers, shrugging off his jacket and holding it over both their heads. It doesn’t particularly help when it’s so windy that the rain is coming at them sideways, but it’s better than nothing.

Sam looks at them balefully as his umbrella inverts itself and then jumps out of his grip and off down the street.

“Huh.” Is all Cas thinks that merits.

“So, the itinerary says ‘see sights and crap’ which is helpfully vague, Dean.” Sam grumbles, trying and failing not to get the sheet wet. He stuffs it back in his inside pocket.

“Yeah, well, not like we’d be able to actually _see_ them through all this fucking sideways rain, would we? I can barely see you and you’re nearly as tall as the Space Needle.”

“Maybe it’ll clear up?” Cas says. He sounds sceptical

“We could find a bar to hole out in, until it all blows over.” Sam suggests.

“Funny you should say that…” Dean begins.

“Precisely how many bars have you put on this list, Dean?”

“Some.” He shrugs. “Just the recommended ones. Two in Seattle.”

Sam sighs. This is a conversation for another day, when he’s drained the lake from his shoes.

“Which one is closest?”

 

  **Canon whiskey and bitter emporium, Seattle.**

“This is the most out of place I have ever felt in my life.” Sam looks around. “And I went from motel rooms to Stanford.”

“Okay so it’s a little more up itself than I imagined—”

“Dean, the food menu is titled _Rations_ and bread and butter costs $4.”

“Yeah, but it’s supposed to have like the best whiskey ever. One drink, one drink and then if we don’t like it we can hightail.”

“I’d rather be in here than out in the rain.” Cas notes.

Sam carries on thumbing through the menu, stops at the cocktail section.

“Absinthe Frappe anyone?”

Dean and Cas both go pale, make gagging noises.

“We said we’d never mention absinthe again.” Cas groans.

“Babies.” Sam snorts.

“If you’re so brave, have the fucking absinthe then.”

“Fine. I will.” Sam declares.

“What about a Khaleesi Cocktail, Dean?” Cas leans over Sam’s shoulder and points at the menu.

“I don’t drink cocktails.” Dean harrumphs.

“It comes with a skull shaped bottle full of smoke?”

“Okay, that sounds cool.” He’s wavering, Cas can tell.

“Charlie would never forgive us if one of us didn’t order the Game of Thrones cocktail.” Sam adds.

“But I came here for the whiskey.”

“Then get a whiskey.” Cas points out, reasonably, and flips the page over.

“There’s so many. I don’t even know where to start.”

Cas stabs his finger down on a random drink.

“Have that one.”

“That’s a beer, Cas.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because it say’s IPA at the end, that stands for India Pale Ale, which is a kind of beer.” Sam explains to him, as Dean continues to umm over the menu.

“What’s a ‘spirit flight’?” Cas enquires.

“It’s where they give you three different samples so you can try ‘em out, see which one you like most.”

Dean answers absently, weighing up whether he should just go for the dragon cocktail after all. Smoke in a glass does sound pretty cool. Dunno what the fuck you do with it though, look at it, drink it, fucking huff it?

He grabs the menu away from Sam and flicks back a few pages to look at the cocktails. Why not, there’s no-one here to tell him not to drink all the girly drinks he wants. Still though, it seems a shame to waste the chance to try some really nice whiskey verses his usual paint stripper.

He hums for a few more minutes and then looks up, the others are being awfully quiet, and that’s always suspicious. And that’s because they’re gone, away to the bar already. Charming. Couldn’t have waited for five minutes for him to make up his mind.

He shuffles over grumpily and punches Sam between his shoulder blades.

“Coulda waited, you ass.”

“Cas is ordering for you.”

Oh shit.

“Nuh-uh. I’m a grown man, I can decide what drink I want.”

“He’s being nice, Dean. Don’t be a tool.”

“But—”

Cas turns around with a triumphant expression.

“She said to grab a table and she’ll bring all of our drinks over together.”

They settle down and Dean badgers Cas relentlessly to tell him what he’s ordered. Cas keeps his silence, even when Dean threatens to tickle him until he screams.

“I’m not ticklish.”

“Well that’s just grossly unfair, and probably untrue.”

Luckily Dean doesn’t get to test this – because Sam is looking forward to his fancy absinthe cocktail and doesn’t want to get thrown out before it arrives, thanks, _children_ – because their server arrives and sets down their drinks with a flourish.

The Absinthe Frappe comes in a fancy, cut crystal looking glass that Dean jokes Sam shouldn’t pick up in case he crushes it in his huge, monster paws. The drink itself is faintly green tinged and full of ice with a bunch of mint poking out the top. It looks like there’s about two mouthfuls of it, but Sam supposes with absinthe that’s probably wise.

Next down is the Khaleesi Cocktail, which is literally the colour of blood and looks like the coolest shit ever. Along with it gets put a stoppered glass bottle in the shape of a skull with a thin layer of cocktail at the bottom and thick, white smoke filling the rest.

“Fire and Blood, am I right?” Dean grins as he reaches for it.

Cas slaps his hand away.

“That’s mine.”

“Oh. What’d you get me, then?”

“For you, sir, the Smoke Bomb.”

Dean’s order looks the plainest. A simple wooden tablet with three small, bowl glasses balanced on top. No gimmicks or elaborate displays, just three tasting glasses of whiskey.

“From left to right, that’s the Ardbeg 10, the Laphroaig 10, and finally, the Lagavulin 16. Enjoy your drinks.”

 Expensive whiskey.

“Shitting hell, Cas. How much did this cost?!”

“In most cultures it is customary to say thank you.” Cas replies, drily.

“I—thanks, but, man, seriously. This is way too much, you—”

“Just shut up and enjoy your whiskey. It’s too late to send it back.” Sam grumbles.

Dean thinks about arguing further, but Sam has a point, he can’t send it back now, even if Cas did just pay, he checks the menu, 32 fucking dollars for like six sips of whiskey.

I’m grateful, I am, Cas. It’s really nice of you, but, dude—”

“You deserve nice things.” Cas interjects. “Now drink it before you end up wearing it.”

“You wouldn’t…” Dean’s tone isn’t quite as confident as his words are.

Cas shrugs. Dean accepts defeat and tries each of the whiskeys in turn. They’re good. Sell my soul for a million bucks so I can drink this sort of shit every day good.

He announces this to the room in general. Sam doesn’t look too amused.

“What? Too soon? That was years ago, I got out. It’s all good.”

Cas snorts and Sam just rolls his eyes. He’s well used to the way Dean deals with everything by turning it into a joke. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Cas finishes his cocktail and turns his attention to the smoky bottle left on the table.

“Am I supposed to inhale it, or is it just decorative?”

“Fucked if I know.” Dean replies.

“Can’t hurt to try.” Sam shrugs.

Cas rolls his shoulders, levels his full focus smiting glare at the bottle, pops off the stopper and fits his mouth around the neck.

He catches Dean’s eye as he hollows his cheeks and inhales deeply. Dean’s mouth goes a little dry at the sight. He’s a gross, perpetually horny human being, it’s not his fault. Kinda.

Cas holds the smoke in for longer than either Dean or Sam expected, they were fully prepared to watch him hack it all back up in truly embarrassing fashion. Instead he lets out a little trickle from his lips.

He looks so fucking cool that Dean can’t help leaning over and kissing him. Cas blows some of the smoke into his mouth. It tastes like strawberry and bourbon.

Sam coughs pointedly and they break apart.

“You two are gonna be hammered.”

“What? We’ve only had like, one drink.”

“Well according to an article I read on the dangers of— don’t fucking laugh. According to this article if you smoke alcohol it goes directly to your head and makes you like twice as drunk.”

Even as Sam starts talking, Dean feels it hit him. Woah. Okay. Yeah, he’s definitely pleasantly buzzed now. And if he’s feeling it, Cas must be as well.

As if to answer him, Cas lets out a hiccoughing laugh and leans in until he’s inches from Dean’s face.

“Your eyes are really green.”

 

*

 

When the waiter comes over to collect their empty glasses, Dean enquires after the price of their most expensive whiskey, just out of interest. He can’t help a bubbling, snorting laugh at her answer, earning a disapproving glare from both her and Sam.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises hastily, “just, wow.”

“True quality is worth paying for.” She informs him, but there’s no real snobbery in her tone so Dean just lets it slide.

“Will you want anything else?”

They exchange all glances.

“Nah, we’re golden. Thanks, though.”

 

*

 

“So, where next?” Sam asks.

“Depends what you want.” Dean bats away Cas’s roving hands. He’s gone full on flirty, handsy drunk. Not that Dean doesn’t enjoy being felt up by Cas usually, but they’re in public and personally he’s not quite drunk enough to go full exhibitionist yet.

“S’too early to head back to the hotel. There’s another bar on the list, it’s not that near, but we can get a cab. It’s supposed to be really good.”

He looks hopefully over at Sam. He’s just pleasantly buzzed enough to want to carry on drinking. Maybe he’ll encourage Cas to slow down a bit, though. Don’t want him throwing up on his shoes or anything.

“I could go for a bar. Are we gonna have to sell the Impala to buy a drink in this one as well, or is it reasonably priced?”

“Dive bar, Sammy. Dive bar.”

 

** Blue Moon Tavern, Seattle **

“I love you, Casssss.” Dean slurs over the sound of some punk band he’s never heard of and will be fucked if he remembers the name of. “But. I think I love, this whiskey...more. I’mma marry it, and you, can,” his head dips and jerks back up, “you can be joint best man with Sammy.”

Cas doesn’t reply. He’s face down on the table, snoring.

Dean lays his head down on the table next to him, frowns at him, lifts up one of his eyelids, and, when that fails to elicit a reaction, sits back up with a sigh.

“Sammy?” He looks around, squintily.

How hard can it be to keep track of one gigantic moose man? Very, apparently, when he’s powered by absinthe and won’t stop and sit still like a normal person.

The band finishes and shouts something incredibly nasty at the audience, because being a douche is punk rock apparently. Dean thinks about yelling something nasty back, but he gets distracted by the sound of a bell ringing. Bells. That means something in bars. He knows this. C’mon Dean, think. Bells means, bells means… Bells means last call! He stumbles his way over to the bar and slurs out an order for another whiskey before it’s too late.

The bartender gives him a look, but hands it over anyway.

Dean winks at him, full Winchester charm. Not that he’s going to do anything, because he has Cas. Sleepy nerdy little Cas over in the corner. Doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to flirt, though.

“Yeah, yeah, Casanova. Save it.”

Okay, wow. Rude. How dare he not be utterly charmed. Dean returns sulkily back to his table and elbows Cas to try and wake him up and complain.

Cas doesn’t wake up and Dean sighs his most put upon sigh, and looks around for Sammy again. Wow, everything is super blurry. He’s been getting very drunk recently, what’s with that. Where’s his usual tolerance gone?

S’probably a good thing that it doesn’t take him that much to get drunk, now that’s he’s got shit to get old for. He should prolly look after his liver and exercise and diet and do all that boring shit but what’s the point in living until you’re like 90, if you spend all your time hungry and sober so that’s a dumb idea.

The _tough shit we are no longer serving_ bell rings and Dean sips smugly at his whiskey as a few people turn away from the bar, disappointed. One point to Dean Winchester, oh yes. He is the best. He tries to wake Cas up again to tell him this, but he’s still asleep. If he wasn’t snoring raspily away, Dean might be worried that he was dead, but he is, so it’s all fine.

Now where the fuck is Sam?

 

*

 

Sam is on the floor, which is why Dean can’t see him, playing with a ginormous dog. It’s a Newfoundland and it is so ginormously ginormous that he thinks he could probably ride it into battle. Not that he would, because that would be mean. Poor dog. The point is, he could, if he wanted to.

He explains this to the dog’s slightly-more-drunk-than-he is owner, and she nods approvingly. He asks her, for the fourth time, how she possibly walks such a huge dog, because she is tiny, and he is huge, and she gives him the same answer as before, that she does it with difficulty but that luckily he is very well trained and tends to listen to her.

“But, but what if he didn’t?”

“Then he would drag me along the street until I let go and I’d just have to hope he came back.”

“That would suck.”

“It would suck!!” She agrees, loudly and passionately, and hugs her gigantic dog.

 

*

 

The bartender finally loses patience with his clientele, and kicks them all out.

Two incredibly drunk people stagger outside, carry-dragging another also incredibly drunk but also incredibly asleep person, and pile into a taxi.

It is only a five minute walk to their hotel, and the rain has finally stopped, but they’re very drunk, and they don’t understand, so the taxi driver gives up and just drives them there anyway. It takes longer in the car, because of one way streets, but that’s their prerogative if they’re going to be dumb.

 

*

 

They end up staying in Seattle for an extra day, because they want to see the sights and definitely not for reasons of screaming, agonising hangovers.

**  
**

** Watertown Hotel, Seattle **

“We’re kinda near Canada.” A Sam shaped lump of blankets mumbles. “Should we go to Canada?”

“Who the hell wants to go to Canada?” Dean grouses from where he’s sprawled across the sofa.

“Canadians.” Sam suggests reasonably.

“They have free healthcare up there.” Cas mumbles into Dean’s chest.

“You suggesting my tooth floss stitches aren’t good enough for ya suddenly, Cas?”

“They might be able to cure my head.”

“Nothing wrong with your head that you didn’t do to yourself.”

“I’ve heard Vancouver is nice this time of year.” Sam interrupts.

“I’ve heard it’s full of pricks.” Dean shoots back.

 

** Mammoth Hot Springs: Hot Tub Cabin **

“Do you think this cabin has a hot tub? I can’t find any mention of it on the website.”

“Very funny Cas.”

 

*

 

Despite the fact that each private hot tub is big enough for six people, there’s only a single queen bed cabin attached to each. This means that Sam has to take a private room to himself in the adjacent hotel. Not that he’s complaining even slightly. It means he gets to relax to himself, sleep un-harassed, and wander through rooms without fear of walking in on something gross.

He unwinds on his own after the long drive, gets his trunks on and wanders slowly over to Dean and Cas’s cabin. Cas answers the door, dripping wet and excited looking.

“I like hot tubs.” He says by way of greeting, and Sam can’t smother his laugh.

Cas leads him to the outdoor hot tub, which Dean is lying in with a blissful expression on his face. He cracks open one eye when he hears the other two padding across the wooden decking.

“Grab yourselves a beer and get on in.”

Sam’s not going to argue with that. He lowers himself into the water with a satisfied groan.

“Dude. This is amazing.”

“I know right.” Dean drawls lazily, taking a pull on his beer.

“Dean has promised to build one for the bunker.” Cas adds as he slips back in as well.

“He has, has he?” Sam asks with a smirk.

“It can’t be that hard. I dunno how we’d hook it up to the bunker’s mystical magical grid, but I think we get enough sun, I could connect it to some solar panels, build us something good. Something that’ll last as long as we do.”

“Something just for us, not for the job or as a defence against monsters.” Cas says, almost wondrously.

“I’ll make it to fucking last, too. We’ll still be sitting in it when we’re all fucking grumpy old men, whining about the kids and their holographic projectors and how technology is ruining the world.”

Sam feels his chest seize up. They sound so fucking happy, so fucking prepared for the rest of their life together. He didn’t think he’d ever see Dean like this. He’s never seen Dean’s endgame as love and happiness and a life, because Dean’s never once talked about it like that. It’s always been going out swinging, brought down too young by something too big for him to handle.

Dean has always talked like he’d die young, die on the job. Leaving Sam behind, to mourn and try and patch himself back together.

Listening to Dean talk about the future like he’s planning to stick around for it. Fuck. It’s a good feeling.

“What?” Dean squints at him.

“Nothing.”

“I can tell you’re thinking about something, so just spill or we’ll ban you from the hot tub.”

Sam huffs.

“Just thinking how nice it is to see you talking like you have a future.”

The tips of Dean’s ears go red and he looks like he wants to sink under the water and never talk to any of them ever again.

Cas catches Sam’s eye and smiles wryly at him.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed at being happy.” Sam says.

“I know,” Dean mumbles, half into the water. “Just weird hearing you say it like that.”

Things are sort of awkwardly silent for a minute, and then Dean hauls himself up out of the water with a grunt of effort.

“I need to hit the head. You guys want anything on my way back?”

“Beer’d be good.” Sam says, and Cas agrees.

“Feel free to talk about me while I’m gone.” Dean throws back over his shoulder.

“You’re not that interesting.” Cas teases, and Dean mock stumbles like he’s been shot in the chest.

“I meant it.” Sam says to Cas, when Dean is out of sight. “He looks happy, and that’s mostly down to you.”

“He makes me happy too.” Cas says simply.

“I can fucking hear you, assholes!” Dean shouts.

 

*

 

Sam retreats to his own room, pleasantly drunk and tired, around midnight. He strips, settles on his bed, sticks the TV on and allows himself to fall asleep gently, for the first time a long while. He drifts in and out of consciousness, relaxed and half listening to, half watching late night rubbish on the TV.

 

*

 

Dean and Cas wave Sam off and then shut the door.

“So,” Dean says, “all alone with a hot tub…”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Cas settles his hands on Dean’s hips, kisses him fiercely and then pulls away, grabs his hand and leads him back to the tub. They shed their trunks along the way. They’re almost in the water before Cas remembers the lube and doubles back to paw through his duffle.

“We’re running low.” He comments, as he chucks the bottle at Dean and turns the bubbles back on. Dean happens to have accidentally on purpose positioned himself almost exactly over one of the jets, and he groans at the sensation of water vibrating and pulsing against his ass.

“This feels nearly as good as having your fingers up there.”

“Glad to know you’re not replacing me with a bubble jet just yet.” Cas teases wryly.

He slips back into the water, dives under and gives a few half-hearted sucks at Dean’s cock. He can’t stay down for too long without air though, so he surfaces pretty quickly. He looks debauched, water dripping down his chest, wet hair plastered to his head.

Dean bites gently at the tip of his nose, takes two firm handfuls of his ass. He massages, but makes no attempts to start stretching Cas out. He’s in the mood for getting fucked tonight, he just hopes Cas is on the same page.

He appears to be, settling down and pulling Dean onto his lap. He grabs the lube from the side and squirts it onto his fingers. It’s silicon based, suitable for use under water. He suspects Dean bought it for this very purpose, the sneaky bastard .

“I can’t eat you out in the water.” Cas whines petulantly, settles for biting at Dean’s collarbone and shoulder muscles instead.

“You can eat me out any time you want. We can’t have hot tub sex any time.”

Cas hums in agreement, thrusts a finger suddenly into Dean’s hole. He rests his head on Cas’s shoulder and grunts in surprised pleasure. One of his hands flails out to the side in search of grip and instead he accidentally knocks the water jets up to full power. Oh god, that feels good.

“That as good for you as it is for me?” He asks Cas, breathlessly.

“S’pretty good.” Cas confirms.

He adds another finger, fists his other hand into Dean’s hair and tugs, scratches his nails over his scalp and down the back of his neck. Dean shivers and shudders, torn between the bubbling pounding sensation of the water and the sharp, not quite painful scrape of Cas’s fingers.

Cas is moving a little too slow for his liking, and he tells him off for this with a firm bite to his shoulder.

“Impatient.” Cas chides him.

It’s always a dangerous game, trying to hurry Cas along like this. He’s as likely to slow down, draw it out and tease Dean even worse as he is to do what Dean actually wants.

Luckily Cas seems to be in an amenable mood tonight.

He adds another finger, teases delicately over Dean’s prostate and brings his other hand down to stroke around the edge of Dean’s rim.

And then Cas withdraws, settles his hands on Dean’s hips as he lowers himself slowly down onto Cas’s cock.

He forces Dean to take it slowly, every time he tries to build up a bit of speed and slam himself down, Cas tightens his grip on his hips and stops him, slows him until he settles into the pace Cas wants.

It doesn’t take Dean long to get past the urgency, the desperate need to touch Cas and be touched by him. He’s here, they’re practically at the start of their road trip, and, like Sam pointed out earlier, he’s in this for life. This is just the start. He doesn’t need to paw and claw and take everything he can because soon it’s going to be gone. He’s allowed to relax, let Cas rock almost imperceptibly into him beneath a starlit sky.

Dean rests their foreheads together and drapes his arms over Cas’s shoulders. They move together so gently that they barely cause any waves, the bubbles the only thing disturbing the water’s surface.

Dean’s orgasm builds, sweet and slow. Soft exhales and barely there moans as Cas takes him apart like he has a lifetime left in which to do this.

He doesn’t shout when he comes, he groans, long and drawn out, as pleasure sweeps all the way through him, intense, but somehow soft with it.

Cas comes barely a moment after, with a little sigh. Dean lifts gently off and looks at him, just takes him in. The long sweep of his limbs, his compact runners frame, the sharp jut of his cheekbones. His eyes; the shape and colour and the depth of them. There’s still something about them that doesn’t look entirely human, some inscrutable intensity.

There’s water on Dean’s face, and he thinks it’s from the pool but he’s not sure. Cas wipes it away with his thumb, and Dean closes his eyes, settles with his back to Cas’s chest.

They stay there for a long time, silent, with Cas slowly carding his fingers through Dean’s hair, watching the night sky, staring up at the stars, and down at them too.

Cas can’t decide which he finds more beautiful.

**  
**

** Yellowstone National Park **

“Remind me why we’re up before dawn?” Cas mumbles around a cavernous yawn.

“To see the wildlife.”

“Why are the wildlife up this early? Haven’t they heard of sleeping in?”

“They’re wild animals, Cas. I don’t think they have a concept of lazy Sundays.”

“Lions do. They spend half their lives asleep. I should have taken a lion as my vessel.”

“I thought you liked nature?” Dean harrumphs.

“I like nature, I don’t like waiting for nature.”

“Well, tough.”

“Why didn’t we go on one of the ranger walks? At least there’d be something interesting to keep me awake in the meantime.”

“They were all full, okay. I’m King Idiot of Bad Planning. Happy?”

Cas snorts.

“Oh sure.” Sam cuts in. “You remembered to book the Wild West experience dinner, but you forgot to book the wildlife walks.”

“Dude, we have a chance at an authentic Wild West experience!”

“You’ve been to the literal Wild West, Dean.” Sam frowns at him.

“Yeah but it was gross and germy and…you know what? Shut the fuck up.”

 

*

 

Despite doing his best to be uninterested and aloof, Cas is actually the first to spot any animals from the window of their rented Land Rover.

He’s idly scanning the horizon with the binoculars, annoying himself to full consciousness by being unable to remember the names and any interesting facts about most of the local flora, when he sees movement in the bushes.

“Dean!” He elbows him in the ribs.

Dean and Sam grab their own binoculars; train them on the moving bush.

Out of it steps a wolf, and then another, and then a whole little line of them. Not quite a pack, but a small hunting group maybe. Dean buzzes with excitement, hoping to see a cub nosing its way out of the bushes after its parents. He’s disappointed in that respect, but what he thinks happens next more than makes up for it.

“Dude!” Dean exclaims as they drive towards Old Faithful. “I totally had a moment with that wolf! She looked right at me!”

“You were looking at it through binoculars from like half a mile away. It couldn’t see you. And even if it could, all it’d see was the Jeep.” Sam rolls his eyes.

“We made a _connection,_ Sam.”

Cas kicks Sam in the shin, and Sam begrudgingly lets Dean have his delusional moment.

 

*

 

They miss Old Faithful blowing by about five minutes, so they hang around and wait for another hour. Sam goes on some lame tour of some famous Inn nearby (Dean isn’t really listening), and it takes so long that he nearly misses the next eruption too. Much to Dean and Cas’s clear amusement.

“That was a very impressive eruption.” Cas supplies once it’s done, with a completely straight face.

“I dunno.” Dean grins. “I’ve seen some pretty massive eruptions in my time.”

Cas glares at him.

“I’m trying to appreciate a miracle of nature.”

“My eruptions are a miracle of nature.” Dean whispers into his ear.

Cas snorts and hits him on the shoulder.

Sam ignores them, retreats to his happy place and contemplates getting a puppy.

 

*

 

They spend a couple of days in Yellowstone, trundling along in their borrowed vehicle, drinking in the sights of canyons and geysers, lakes, valleys and basins. They don’t see any more wolves, much to Dean’s disappointment, but they come across plenty of bison and deer – even get slightly too close to a bear at one point. Damn, those things are big.

**Mammoth Hot Springs: Hot Tub Cabin **

Dean is awoken by a crack of thunder. He’s unusually groggy at first, and then he notices that Cas isn’t pressed up against him. He sits up, rubs at his eyes and frowns in the direction of the bathroom. The light isn’t on so Cas isn’t in there, unless he went for a piss in the dark.

Dean gets up, pulls on some boxers and goes exploring.

Cas is nowhere in the cabin, so Dean groans, dresses himself properly and ventures outside. The hot tub is off and there’s no sign of him in their fenced off little enclosure. Dean’s heart starts to race a little faster. He turns back to face the cabin, and that’s when he sees him.

He looks so fucking melodramatic. Illuminated by lightning, standing on the roof of the cabin in jeans and bare feet.

Dean looks for a foothold that isn’t going to get him killed, which in this rain is difficult. He manages it eventually though, comes to stand behind Cas and lifts his arms out sideways for him, Titanic style.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hi, nutjob.”

Cas turns around and Dean kisses him gently on the nose.

“I hope you’re not planning to throw yourself off.”

“Of course not.”

“I woke up and you were gone.”

“Sorry, I just…”

“Just wanted to stand on the roof in the rain like a shitty Batman? ”

“You like Batman.”

“I like you too. For some reason.”

“You didn’t have to join me.”

“I woke up and you were gone. Got a bit worried. Next time, leave a note or something.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t do it again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“So, whacha doing up here?”

“I wanted to watch the storm from somewhere high. This was the highest place within reach.”

“Okay?”

“Go inside. I can feel you shivering.”

“If you get pneumonia, I’m going down with you.”

Cas flicks him on the forehead.

“So, why can’t you watch the storm from the safety of inside, like normal people?”

“I’m not normal people.”

“Yeah.” Dean snorts. “I’ve noticed that.”

“It’s hard to explain. There’s something about it, something intangible, something of the feel of it that reminds me…”

“Reminds you of what?” Dean asks, but he knows exactly what. And it causes a dull little ache in his chest.

“Of being an angel.”

“Do you miss it?” Dean asks, and a little tug of guilt tries to gain a hold.

“Yes.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but Cas knows him, doesn’t need him to vocalize to understand what he’s feeling.

“It’s not that I want to go back. I don’t.” He tips up on the balls of his feet, so his eyes are dead level with Dean’s. “I wouldn’t give this up for anything, understand that, please. But I do miss it. It’s a kind of nostalgia. Like when you listen to your dad’s music, or eat the type of food your mother cooked. It helps you feel connected to them. It doesn’t mean you want to be five years old again, give up all the things you’ve fought for and won for yourself.

“I was an angel for a long time. Sometimes it’s nice to feel like that again, close to the being I was for so long. It reminds me that I’m doing the right thing, here. That mortal, human, and with you is the happiest I could possibly be.”

“Shit, man.” Dean fumbles. “Is this like an alone thing, do, uh, do you want me to leave you alone up here?”

Cas shakes his head.

“It’s nice, having you here. But you should go inside, you’re shivering.”

“So’re you.”

Dean jumps down, goes inside and grabs a bundle of blankets and a tarpaulin. He lobs them up onto the roof. Even with the waterproof sheet over the blankets, they’ll still get wet, but tomorrow’s supposed to be another hot day, they’ll dry off easy enough.

They wrap themselves up tight and lie on the roof. Cas lets the crash and peel of thunder fill him up, echo in the hollows and spaces his human body isn’t supposed to have. Angelic damage, lingering hints of grace.

Dean watches the lightning fork down, and thinks about the damage it leaves behind.


	11. Lost to a Love That's a Mile Wide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Editors song, _[Formaldehyde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xg2vpkGQadM)_

** Yellowstone National Park **

Their Western adventure is saved for the last day. Unfortunately, Dean didn’t read the small print – in particular the bit about the two hour horse ride to their location. His horse takes an immediate dislike to him, and no amount of his inexpert horsemanship can persuade it to calmly trot along like Castiel and Sam’s beasts.

“This is so not fucking fair.” He groans, attempting to massage his ass with one hand and hang on tight to the reigns with the other. “How are you guys so good at this?”

Cas shrugs, and Sam mumbles something that might be “Stanford,” Dean can’t hear over the sound of his asscheeks screaming in pain.

 

*

 

Sore asses and Dean’s burgeoning hatred of horses notwithstanding, they have a good night. It’s everything that Dean wanted the real Wild West to be. Hearty food, decent whiskey, authentic sounding music, and, best of all, an “acceptable” food hygiene standards rating from whoever the fuck regulates this shit.

Dean even acquires a cowboy hat, which he refuses to take off until that night, when Cas is riding him vigorously in their cabin. He places it on Cas’s head, slaps him on the flank, and crows, “ride ‘em, cowboy!”

Cas slows to a halt, tips the brim down so it all but covers his eyes, and gives Dean his best villainous smoulder.

“Do that again, and I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t sit comfortably in the Impala for a week.”

A mischievous smile flits across Dean’s face. He makes direct eye contact with Cas and lifts his hand again.

Cas catches his arm, uses it to leverage and flip him over, pin Dean to the bed.

And then he makes good on his promise.

 

** Badlands National Park **

“We’ve just been to a national park. Aren’t you all natured out?”

“Dude. It is literally called Badlands. How can you not wanna go?”

“I just don’t see the point in going right after Yellowstone.”

“They filmed _Dances with Wolves_ here, dude.”

Sam snaps his fingers.

“You don’t even give a shit about nature, do you? You’re just a gigantic fucking nerd.”

 

** St Louis City Museum **

“You don’t need to keep stuffing in random museums for my sake, Dean.” Sam sighs as he checks the next stop.

“Not everything is about you, Sammy.” Dean shifts uncomfortably on the back seat.

“So what, _you_ want to go to a museum. You voluntarily want to go to a place of learning?”

“Yup.”

“This better not be a fucking porn museum, Dean.”

“I promise _this_ museum isn’t a porn museum.”

Sam gives up.

 

*

 

It’s not a porn museum, it’s a chaos museum.

They walk through the doors and are greeted by a life-size sculpture of a Bowhead Whale. Possibly the least weird thing in the entire museum.

There’s also a slightly less life-size puking pig, which Dean and all the small children in the building think is hilarious.

Dean’s so busy looking up that he doesn’t even notice the elaborate mosaic work covering the floor until Cas crouches down to trace his hands over the rough surface, bumps and cracks and fractures.

“Things like this have always reminded me of humanity.” He informs Dean when he leans down to see what’s got him so interested.

“Oh yeah?”

“Hundreds and thousands of crushed little pieces. Sad, broken on their own, but bring them together and they make something wonderful.”

“Jesus, Cas.” Dean taps him on the cheek, some choking, hot feeling bubbling up in his chest. “You should be a poet.”

Cas hums some weird little noise – Dean can’t tell whether he’s agreeing, disagreeing, or none of the above – and stands. He surveys the loud, chaotic mess – the fibreglass icicles hanging from the ceiling, the giant refrigerator coil slinky.

“So, where first?”

 

*

 

They make a token effort to keep together, but the museum, with its staff bedecked with _no maps_ badges, seems to have been built in order to be deliberately confusing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Sam looks down at his phone for 30 seconds, and when he looks up Dean and Cas are long gone. Not that that’s unusual or anything. He’s gotten used to them not so subtly vanishing every five minutes and coming back looking dishevelled and wrecked. They’re worse than horny teenagers – although he supposes Cas has a lot of pent up sexual frustration to work through. And Dean is, well, Dean.

Sam has a pretty good time by himself. He gives up his attempts to methodically explore the entire museum after about ten minutes and instead just goes with the flow.

He climbs up a treehouse ladder and ends up in a hollowed out trunk, which he wanders aimlessly around until he finds himself, logically, in a shoelace factory. He briefly entertains designing and buying some custom shoelaces. Realises that is probably the actual lamest thing he has ever thought in his life and beats a hasty retreat.

 

*

 

“I feel like I’m having a bad acid trip.” Dean remarks to the man standing next to him. Who turns out not to be Cas. Awkward.

Dean bites down the brief snip of paranoid worry – he hasn’t been kidnapped or fucking stabbed, he’s just wandered off and they’ve got separated. His phone buzzes and he looks down.

**— Think I may have accidentally wandered off.**

**— Lol where are u?**

**— No idea, sorry :(**

**— Don’t worry about it. See u at the end?**

**— :)**

Dean relaxes, tells himself not to be so pathetic.

Half of this building is built from old machines and parts, and he’d love to get his hands into the guts of them, tug and pull and explore and decipher. He’s not about to start tearing apart museum exhibits though, so he restrains himself.

This place looks like chaos, but it’s not. It’s very clearly the work of one man – one extraordinary mind. There’s a deranged kind of pattern, but it’s still a pattern. He’s good at patterns; he thinks he can navigate it with at least a small degree of success.

He plays cat-burglar on the second floor, winks at a bemused small child as he slinks along the walls, ducks behind the marble bar and fiddles with the combination of one of the two 3,000-pound vault doors.

He can’t resist sidling up to the giant hamster wheel looking thing in the middle of another room. He runs his hands over it, probing, curious. It’s used in a manufacturing process of some kind, he thinks, but exactly what he’ll be fucked if he knows.

Eventually he gives up and reads the plaque. It doesn’t say what it’s called; only that some dude or company or whatever named McDonnell Douglas donated it, and that it was used to make the fuselages for small planes. Well, he was kinda right. Ish.

He carries on winding his way around, ends up in the World Aquarium. It’s a good thing he didn’t end up here first, or he’d have never got anywhere else. He trails around excitedly, reading about the rehabilitated sharks and rays, sea turtles, otters, alligators, and, fittingly for an aquarium, sloths and parrots.

Parrots he can kinda see – pirates and all that. He’s not sure what sloths are doing in an aquarium, but whatevs. They look pretty happy, and pretty green. Algae, growing in their coats because they move so slowly, Dean learns. Excellent. There’s a new nickname for Cas when he’s being all dopey and slow in the morning.

He crawls through the shark tunnel, lies down on his back and watches them swim around him until some kids shoo him out so they can play. He doesn’t begrudge them. Man, he would have killed to be let loose in a place like this when he was a kid.

He probably had already killed when he was their age. And Jesus, isn’t that a strange thought.

He definitely doesn’t wait in line for half an hour to pet a stingray to cheer himself up. Nope. Lies and slander.

 

*

 

Cas turns around and realises that he’s lost Dean. He remembers his promise and quickly taps out a text to reassure him. 

They agree to meet at together at the end, and Cas pockets his phone and carries on exploring.

He ends up in something called the Enchanted Cave. It’s dark, eerie and definitely his favourite place in the museum.

The walls are the rough white of salt rock, with strange, twisted protrusions leaping out at every angle. At first the patterns look random, formless. But every now and then you catch one out of the corner of your eye and you realise there’s something there, deliberate and contrived.

Creatures dance across the walls. A frog bursts out of the rock, spewing a greenish waterfall. Horned lizards stare at you from what you first assumed was a bannister and staircase. You realise that stalagmite and the lumpy rock pillar behind it has eyes and a broad back – a rhino deciding whether to charge or let you live.

Cas never makes it to any of the other exhibits – he prowls through ten floors of animal caves, stroking his hands over the rock almost guiltily, loathe to wear away the stone and ruin the artwork, but desperate to touch, to feel, to understand.

He finds himself on the top floor when a loud ten minute warning claxon sounds. He startles. He had no idea he’d been in there for this long, and he has no idea how he’s going to get down to the exit in time to not get locked in.

How do they even sweep a museum this twisted, cavernous and expansive?

As if his mild worry has summoned her, a grinning employee materialises and corrals him and another small group to the roof.

He assumed they’re queuing for a fire exit, or a lift or something. He only realises it’s a ten story slide when he’s being gleefully pushed down it.

He falls forward with a surprised shout, and it takes him a few moments to realise what’s happening. Once he’s processed it, he has to admit, it is kind of fun.

 

*

 

Dean and Sam meet in the throng heading towards the exit, cast around for Cas.

“Dude’s taking his time.” Dean notes.

“You tried calling him?”

“Duh. No answer. Too busy to talk to me, the dick.”

Dean’s starting to get antsy by the time he finally appears – shooting face first out of a gigantic slide with a bemused expression on his face.

He looks so fucking perturbed that they burst out laughing even as they wander over and help him to his feet.

“You’re supposed to go feet first, you doof.” Dean tells him affectionately.

“I know that.” Cas grumbles, directing his death-stare at the ceiling. “I was pushed.”

Dean laughs so hard he folds over, has to clutch his sides and draw in deep, whooping breaths.

“Never fucking change, man. Never change.”

 

** Indianapolis Motor Speedway **

Dean and Sam decide they want to fling themselves around a racetrack at some ridiculous speed. Cas isn’t interested, and he gets so bored sitting through the safety talk that he bids them farewell and goes off for a wander.

He bluffs his way around, ends up in another stupid training room. It’s empty though, so he sits down and rubs at his feet. The all too human ache of them.

He isn’t left alone for long. A small group of excited and nervous looking people file in, led by a guy in motorcycle leathers with a name badge that says “Keith”

He seems a little confused by Cas’s presence, but Cas has learned that if you pretend you know what you’re doing with enough confidence, you can get away with a lot.

“Sorry, I got separated, made my own way here.” He lies, not wanting to get kicked out of the building for trespassing.

“Damn, you walk fast.” Cas shrugs. “Okay, well. Safety vid first and then let’s get you all outfitted.”

Great, another fucking video. But he can’t exactly walk out now. So he watches, and then, because he sat through the tedium, he figures what the hell, he might as well do the rest too.

“Okay, so, over this two day course we’re gonna go through everything you need to complete your Basic Rider Course. I’ll be monitoring your progress as we go, and I’ll award you either a pass or a fail at the end. For those of you who do pass, you’ll then have up to a year to get your state endorsement for your licence. Any questions?”

He points at a woman with her hand raised.

“Yah?”

“You forgot to give us our wristbands.”

Keith groans.

“So I did. Man, I suck at this. Okay everyone, arms out or you won’t be able to get back in here tomorrow.”

Cas gets a neon yellow plastic wristband with the date stamped on it. He slips his finger under it and tugs. So, looks like he’s learning to ride a motorbike, then.

He fires off a quick text to Dean.

**— Accidentally enrolled in a 2 day motorcycle course…**

**— How do u even? Ur like a sitcom character.**

**— How’s driving very fast in a circle?**

**— Dunno. Not done it yet. These guys luv their safety.**

They go through the tedious process of being fitted for leathers and a helmet. Keith takes their measurements, writes them down on a business card and hands it over to each individual.

“These guys are _way_ overpriced, but they’re our sponsors, so I have to tell you to use ‘em.”

Cas smirks. This guy reminds him strangely of Dean. In another life maybe, a safer one with less blood and more time to mess around with engines.

“So, you got anyone watching and laughing from the stands?” Keith asks conversationally, as he selects a helmet from the rack for Cas.

“No. My, uh, partner and his brother are out on the racetrack.”

“Sweet. Well, tell ‘em to come down after if they want – unless you’re one of them anxious types, gonna get put off?”

“I’m not.”

“Cool , cool .”

 

*

 

When Keith is done with him, Cas ambles over to the rest of the group. There’s still a few people left to be fitted, so he has time to kill. He snaps a picture of himself and sends it to Dean.

**— Look what you’re missing.**

**— Oh screw u!!!!**

**— That’s your job.**

**— Do not sexually frustrate me when I’m bored u dick!**

 

*

 

They go through all of the basic safety checks, learn how to make sure everything’s running smoothly before they get on out to the actual course.

The mechanics of the bike itself, Cas isn’t too hot on – despite all the time he spends with Dean – but he takes to riding well enough.

Jimmy Novak might never have ridden a motorbike in his life, but he spent a lot of time on a regular bike, and while it’s not the same, it’s at least similar enough that he doesn’t wobble and fall over.

They spend most of the day doing relatively boring, easy stuff. Clutch control, braking, indicating, changing gear and trundling along very slowly. It’s okay, but it’s not particularly fun, and Cas is starting to regret not bailing before the session started.

And then, as a treat at the end of the session, Keith lets some of the more advanced riders race down the track.

“Jus’ don’t tell my boss, alright. And no corners or anything difficult, just straight line and brake early.”

Cas is one of the advanced party, figures he might as well give it a try.

He revs the engine, puts his foot down on the pedal, and he flies.

It’s transcendent, the same sort of feeling he gets standing in the middle of a thunderstorm, the unrestrained barrage of power and the powerful, crackling smell, ozone or gasoline. He feels like an angel again, feels indestructible and unmatchable.

Any thoughts he had of not coming back for the second session are banished as he screeches to a braking halt at the end of the track.

 

*

 

Dean looks disappointed when Cas meets him at the entrance, back in normal clothes.

“What happened to all that leather?”

“It was borrowed.”

“Couldn’t you borrow it a little longer?”

“I’ll get myself some when I pass the test.” Cas says, basking in the hungry look on Dean’s face.

“Why do you care about the test? Your licence is fake; you’re probably already technically qualified.”

“I would like to be competent before I start flinging myself down the highway.”

“Oh, wait. This is a for serious thing? I thought you were just messing.”

“I like it, it feels like flying.”

“Does this mean no more trying to give yourself pneumonia?”

“Maybe.”

“Or are you just gonna start riding in thunderstorms and trying to give me a heart attack?”

The guilty look on Cas’s face says it all. Dean rolls his eyes theatrically.

“I’d like to stay for tomorrow’s lesson, if that doesn’t interrupt our plans? I still haven’t had a chance to _really_ ride.” Cas interrupts his mock irritation.

“Course we can dude. Especially if that means I get to see you in all your leathers again.”

“You’re allowed to watch from the stand.”

“Oh you better not be teasing me about this.”

“I’m not.”

Dean punches at the air and then pulls him into a handsy hug.

 

*

 

Cas passes his test with flying colours, earning a slap on the back from Keith and a congratulations on being a natural.

Dean rewards him for his hard work later that night, by pounding him into the mattress.

 

*

 

They have a spare hour in between Cas’s test, and the end of the lesson. Cas assumes that means tough luck, sling your hook, but Keith catches his eye.

“I assume that’s your partner up in the stands?”

He gestures to where Dean is hollering and wolf whistling. Sam is sitting next to him, trying to look as small and unobtrusive as possible.

“Yes. I can tell him to shut up if he’s disturbing everyone.”

“Not at all.” Keith grins. “I was just going to say, you’re welcome to get him down for a ride on the back of your bike, if you think that’s something he’d enjoy.”

Cas grins back at him, texts Dean.

He makes his way down to them so quick Cas is sure he teleported, grabs a helmet, and jumps on, clinging tight as Cas roars down the track.

“ARE YOU OKAY BACK THERE, DEAN?” Cas yells over the engine as they start the second lap.

“YEAH.” He grunts. “WHY?”

“I'M GETTING SOME VERY MIXED SIGNALS FROM YOU.”

“I'M FINE!”

“BECAUSE YOU'RE SQUEEZING SO TIGHT YOU'RE IN DANGER OF BREAKING MY RIBS, BUT I'M ALSO PRETTY SURE THAT'S YOUR BONER I CAN FEEL DIGGING INTO MY BACK.”

“YOU DRIVE LIKE A MANIAC. A VERY HOT MANIAC.”

Cas laughs, takes the next corner even more sharply.

“CAS!” Dean growls, somehow managing to tighten his grip.

“YOU’RE MORE RECKLESS THAN THIS IN THE IMPALA.”

“IN A CAR! BIG, SAFE, METAL BOX. WE COME OFF THIS WE’RE LOSING A SIGNIFICANT AMOUNT OF OUR FACES!”

Cas snorts, but he doesn’t slow down.

 

** Niagara Falls **

“Did you know there are actually three separate waterfalls?” Sam’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I didn’t, actually. Even though I was the one who researched this trip and booked the boat and all.” Dean snipes back.

“Would you both just shut up and watch the fireworks?” Cas grumbles.

“Yes mom.” Dean whacks him on the shoulder. “And you were complaining about coming on the night cruise.”

Cas sighs.

“I was wrong, you were right. The falls are beautifully lit.”

“Yeah well, I figured they wouldn’t offer it if you couldn’t actually _see_ the falls.”

“I think you’re overestimating the integrity of the tourism industry.”

Sam snorts, sips on his beer and watches the sky explode. In a good way, for once.

 

** New Orleans **

The drive to New Orleans is long, but so, so worth it. Dean, predictably, gorges himself so much on the first night that he struggles to move.

“Jus’ go on ahead without me. I’ll catch up.”

“I am not leaving you unattended with that buffet.” Sam says.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to die here, and you have all of the impulse control of a starving animal.”

Dean looks to Cas for help. Cas holds up eight fingers. One for every plate Dean has eaten so far. Okay, maybe they have a point.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” He heaves himself to his feet, feeling the strain on his jeans and hoping he doesn’t pop a button. He would never fucking live it down.

 

*

 

Instead of going straight out into New Orleans and sampling the nightlife, they retire to the hotel for the early evening to allow Dean to sleep off his ridiculous feast. Cas joins him in bed, massages Dean’s aching stomach and naps alongside him – glad to finally be out of the car and sleeping on something designed for that purpose. Sam goes to the gym, because even just looking at the state of Dean he feels like he’s packing on the pounds.

When Dean wakes up, they experience New Orleans the way that it is supposed to be experienced. In a drunken blur.

Points to the New Orleans tourist board, their website is excellent. Sam logs on to the ‘follow your NOLA’ experience planner, presses randomize, and they go where the wheel takes them.

They have a great time, they just don’t remember a whole lot about it.

 

** Joylands Amusement Park, Kansas **

“Open your eyes, Dean.”

“No.”

“You’re missing half the fun.”

“You are an asshole. I am never trusting you again.”

“It’s fun.” Cas swings his legs back and forth, peers over the edge of the Dare Devil Drop’s seats.

“It’s not fucking fun. It’s far too high up, and if I wasn’t immobilised, I would punch you.”

 

*

 

Human Cas appears to be an adrenaline junkie thrill seeker, and Dean isn’t sure how he feels about it. He goes on rides with him, because he’s not a baby, but that doesn’t mean he particularly enjoys it. He’d much rather be sitting down with a beer and some greasy burger than being thrown across the sky.

Sam and Cas seem to be enjoying themselves, though, so he keeps his complaining to a minimum.

And the adrenaline has the added bonus of making Cas pretty frisky, too.

 

** Koelzer Bee Farm **

“Why’re we pulling off here, Dean?” Sam asks in an undertone, so he doesn’t wake Cas up in the back seat. They’ve ticked off the whole list; he thought they were on the way home.

“I saw a sign. Just, bear with me.”

Sam rolls with it.

 

*

 

“Hey, Cas. Wake up.” Dean shakes his shoulder.

“Whuh?” He looks out of the car blearily, sees fields of flowers. “Where are we? This isn’t the bunker.”

“Yeah, I know. It's a bee," he casts around for the right word, settles lamely on "farm."

“Okay.” Cas says patiently, getting out of the car and looking around.

“I thought we could, y'know, get some bees, for the garden around the bunker.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Cas seems perplexed.

Dean scrunches up his face.

“You don't actually like bees do you? That was just when you were, y’know…” He trails off, waves his hands in a vague, loopy way.

“No, no, I do. They’re fascinating.” Cas reassures him. “I just, it's unexpected. I don't think we even have any of the flowers they need. Do we have any flowers full stop?”

“This was a bad idea.” Dean kicks the ground.

“It wasn't, it's very thoughtful. I just think we need to ready the place first. We should go in, talk to them. I'm sure they'll be able to give us some advice.”

 

** The Bunker **

Cas is dribbling on the front window of the Impala, and Dean is doing the same in the back. Sam leaves the engine running – he knows Dean has an almost psychic sense for when the Impala shuts off – and gets out his phone. He takes several pictures, future blackmail material, and then turns off the engine and slips out of the car.

Dean jerks awake in the backseat, instantly alert. He takes in the empty front seat, Cas's still prone form. They're still training him on how to be a hunter, but the one thing that Dean can't bear to do is instil in him the same kind of situational awareness his dad terrified into him with knives and loud noises at all hours of the night.

He doesn't want to do that to Cas, and it shames him. He's putting Cas's temporary physical comfort ahead of his fucking life.

He runs his hands through his hair. This is difficult. Cas was created a soldier, never given much chance to enjoy himself, or even learn who he was. Dean doesn't know whether he should give him that chance, let him discover the lazy joys of life, undisturbed sleep – or if it means that it doesn't matter if Dean trains him the same way his dad did, because hey, unlike four year old Dean, Cas hasn’t really known much else.

Dean pushes that aside, shakes Cas awake. He can't help the little spray of emotion that crests his face – a sad, tender sort of love. Joy, tempered by disbelief.

"Dean?" He mumbles quietly.

"S'okay, Cas. We're home."

Cas smiles, eyes still shut.

"You getting up, or what?"

"Carry me."

Dean snorts.

"You're not a fucking bride. I don't have to carry you over the threshold."

"You'd do it if you loved me." Cas mumbles with a grin.

"Oh? Oh? Is that how we're playing this?"

Dean's fucking exhausted, but he's happy. It gives him the strength to heft the great big fucking lump of ex-angel and carry him across the bunker's threshold. Where he promptly dumps him on the ground.

"Deaaaaaaaaaaaan." Cas whines.

"What?"

"Bed!"

"We still haven't picked out a room, or got all that bed crap."

"If you make me go to IKEA now I will throw up on you."

"Charmer."

"Your room or mine?"

"Don't care."

"Mine it is, then."

He hefts him back up and Cas sighs, burying his face back in Dean's chest. He does his resolute best to fall asleep while Dean carries him across the bunker.

Dean grins fondly down at him, settles him on the left hand side of the bed and lies down next to him.

They’re both still fully clothed, and while Dean is somewhat used to it, somewhere along the way Cas has picked up a preference for gross, frumpy pyjamas. Or at least, he did when they were sharing motel rooms with Sam. He’s spent the duration of their vacation a lot more naked – and it’s a precedent Dean wants to keep.

To this end he strips Cas down – peels his socks off carefully, follows that with his jeans and t-shirt and underwear and then does the same to himself.

They're safe, here. It doesn’t matter if they wake up ass naked, because they’re not going to have to fight for their lives.

He rolls Cas over onto his side and curls around him, chest to back. It feels good. Protected and protective. His arms are folded around Cas's torso, legs twined in with his. He's able to breathe in the smell of his hair – it smells like sweat and leather and still a little bit like ozone.

Maybe it'll never leave him. Every person has a unique smell – one they'll never know, but that hangs around them regardless. Maybe this is Cas's. Maybe if Dean hangs around him long enough, it'll start to rub off on him too.

He still, on some level, can't believe that this is real. Or that this means as much to Cas as it is to him. Cas has left too many times, jumped or been pushed.

He’s gonna hold on to him this time, properly.

 

*

 

Cas wakes during the night with Dean's clenching death grip on him. He knows why he's holding so tight. It's because he leaves, he always does. But he only does it for one reason – because he hasn't been asked to stay. He has been – enough – this time.

He rolls them over, grasps onto Dean just as tight. He doesn't want to let go. Dean might be insufferable, and stubborn, and self-deprecating and hurting. Some of that might even be Cas's fault. Being too slow, not coming at all, fraying and breaking his trust.

But he's working on it. He's showing Dean just how much he's loved and needed and cherished.

Dean wants to go to sleep holding on to Cas as tight as he can. He'll wake up with Cas clinging just as tightly back on to him, anchoring him in just the same way.


	12. Love With a Fate Full of Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Razorlight song, _[Wire to Wire](https://youtu.be/MwRNvpGydzw)_

**Part 2: Gone Fishin'**

 

It’s the cold that wakes Dean up. He opens one eye, and then the other, registers the distinct lack of human presence at his side and groans. Stupid Cas getting up in the night and taking his stupid body heat with him. He looks at the clock. Okay, stupid Cas getting up at 8am, but still. That might as well be night compared to his usual hour of rising.

Dean tries to go back to sleep, but nope. He’s awake now, so that means he’s up for the day. Some people aren’t built for lazy mornings and naptimes, unless they’re super hungover, and Dean Winchester is one of those now whether he likes it or not. Old dog and all that shit.

He gets up, yawns and stretches, looks balefully at his morning wood.

“Yeah, I know, but the person whose job it is to take care of you has wandered off somewhere.”

He slings on his bath robe, wanders into the bathroom. No sign of Cas there. No sign of him in the kitchen either.

He checks the garage. Cas’s motorbike is still there, but the Continental is gone.

He goes back to the bedroom and checks his phone, looks for a note. There’s one on the bedside.

“Love you, C”

Well, that’s helpfully fucking vague.

He fires off a text to that effect. _Where the fuck are you? When I said leave a note, I meant leave one that gave me some clue._

He fixes himself a coffee and starts making pancakes.

Sam stumbles into the kitchen just as they’re nearly ready, all red faced and sweaty and decked out in running gear.

“Any of those to go around?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Good morrow, sir Dean. Didst thou sleep well?” He puts on a stupidly formal voice and bows.

“Fuck off, Sam.”

“Where’s your shadow?”

“Dunno.”

“Oh?”

“He left the world’s vaguest note.”

Sam frowns at Dean’s tone, trying to parse which side of annoyed or worried he’s currently falling on. Mind, he can’t be too bad if he’s making pancakes and not y’know, hurling himself across state lines on Cas’s trail.

“So, about those pancakes?”

 

*

 

Cas has been gone for at minimum three hours when Sam decides he’s had enough.

“You wanna go look for him?”

“What? No. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Then stop pacing holes in the floor.”

“I’m not—”

“Dean.”

“Yes, okay. It’s just weird, for him to be gone this long, okay.”

Sam doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is that it is entirely in character for Cas to be gone for this long. He’s become a strange mix of intensely focused and easily diverted since falling. Send him out to do the grocery shopping and he might return two hours later with none of what you asked for, but more bags than he can carry and an encyclopaedic knowledge of world foods.

“So, where do we start?”

“I uh, checked his GPS.”

“Of course you did.”

“Last ping says he was near that weird organic shop up in town.”

“Cool. Let’s head out, then.”

 

*

 

The cashier in that particular shop doesn’t remember seeing Cas recently, but next to it is one of those weird little all-purpose corner stores, that sells everything from gardening supplies to dog food.

The store clerk here remembers him.

“Squinty fella, scary blue eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah he was here, three, maybe four hours ago. Didn’t buy anything, sorta loitered around, finally came to the till with pastry, apples, and a box of condoms – large ones, his girlfriend is a lucky lady.”

Dean blushes and Sam groans. Did. Not. Need. To. Know. That.

In normal circumstances, Dean might have spoken up, an angrily muttered, yeah, I am lucky, flip this person’s dumb assumptions on her head and make her squirm, but right now he’s got worry fighting with confusion. Because, well, they haven’t actually used condoms together. Call them irresponsible or dangerous, but they were both clean when they started sleeping together and they were only banging each other. There didn’t seem any point.

So what the fuck is Cas doing buying condoms? Anyone else, Dean’s first thought would be cheating, but not Cas. He wouldn’t.

“Then, and it was kinda weird. He looks down at his basket and gets this really strange look in his eye, like maybe kinda spooked, or something? Anyway, he sorta muttered something under his breath, and then he turned tail and left.”

“Just left?”

“Yeah, didn’t pay for any of his stuff.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nope. Like I said, he just left.”

“You any idea where he went after that?”

“Uh. He took a right turn out of the shop. After that I can’t tell ya.”

 

*

 

“Well that was fucking useless.” Dean groans when they’re out of hearing range.

“We know he was here.” Sam counters.

“Yeah, but we haven’t got a fucking clue where to go next.”

“Just do what we always do, poke around until we stumble on something.”

“I guess.”

They don’t have to do much poking around. They’re about to enter the next shop, see if anyone in there is a little more helpful, when there’s a sudden flare of sirens. An ambulance and two police vehicles shoot past them, away in the direction the shop assistant said Cas was walking.

“You don’t think—” Sam begins, but Dean has already flung himself into the Impala.

 

*

 

The flash their FBI badges at the officer standing guard to the warehouse.

“How’d you guys get here so quick?”

“We were in the area for a missing person’s case, saw a hell of a lot of flashing lights and thought we’d best investigate.” Sam says, because Dean is too busy staring, wild eyed and a little bit terrified, at the warehouse.

“Well, I hope your MIA has nothing to do with this. It’s bloody in there.”

Sam watches Dean steel himself, pull in a deep breath and square his shoulders.

 

*

 

There are a lot of bodies in the warehouse, but Cas’s isn’t amongst them. That’s the second thing Dean notices. First he notices the charred black stains on the ground, wings burned into concrete and dust.

The third thing Dean notices is a very familiar angel blade. Familiar because of the rope looped and secured around the handle. An addition Dean himself had made to it, when Cas found his newly human, sometimes sweaty hands had trouble holding onto the smooth metal in the heat of battle.

Dean digs his fingernails into his palm so hard that he bleeds, because if he doesn’t do that, he’s going to throw up.

The weapon is lying, discarded on the floor and covered in blood, soaked in it. Next to it there’s a trail of red footprints, leading away.

“Isn’t that—”

“Yeah.”

“Those look about his size footprints too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s tone has the carefully calm cadence of someone who’s trying very hard not to panic, and not quite managing it.

“So he’s been here.”

“Looks that way.”

“And he walked out of here unharmed.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“We don’t know those are his prints.” Dean says, very slowly.

“There’s a hell of a lot of prints leading in here, and only one leading out.”

“What are you trying to suggest?” Emotion starts to creep back into Dean’s tone.

“You have to know what this looks like, Dean.”

“It looks like a lot of dead angels.”

“It looks like a lot of dead angels, and only one person walking away, unharmed and unhurried.”

“You think Cas, you think _Cas_ slaughtered all these angels and then fucked off, without a word to either of us, without so much as a fucking text or a phone call?” Anger he can do. Anger is better than fear.

Sam’s reply sits on the tip of his tongue for a second. He knows the reaction it’s going to provoke, doesn’t mean it can be left unsaid, though.

“Well, it’s not like this’d be the first time he’s done something like this.”

“That was different!”

“Was it? Because it looks really fucking similar. Cas behaving weirdly, vanishing with no word, a trail of dead bodies. The first time this happened, he let loose the Leviathan. The time after that, he nearly killed you and then he cast all the angels out of heaven. He’s got priors and you know it.”

Sam ducks the punch Dean throws at him, restrains him and half drags him out of the building.

“Real fucking professional, Dean.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He rages. “You know Naomi wasn’t his fault. She was in his fucking head, messing around with his wires. He blames himself enough for that crap without you landing it on him too.”

“And the Leviathan? And the angels? Were those Naomi’s fault too?”

“No, but—”

“But what?!”

“He was trying to do the right fucking thing, for us.”

“Yeah. And maybe that’s what he’s doing again.”

Sam is pissed off too, but he restrains himself. This is what Dean does, he builds people up, sets them on pedestals and then refuses to consider any other possibility until he’s being slapped in the face with it.

“I know this is the happiest you’ve been in years, Dean. I know you love him, but you can’t just give him a free pass. We have to consider this.”

The thing is, for all Sam thinks he’s being blindly loyal, Dean knows he has to consider all the options. There’s a lot of shit here that doesn’t make sense – Cas’s purchases, the fact that he hasn’t contacted them, that his phone goes to voice mail every time Dean tries to call. He trusts Cas, he does, and he doesn’t think that Cas is up to anything, but, if he is, which he fucking isn’t, Dean’s sure, but on the tiny, infinitesimal chance that he is up to something, he’ll be doing it for the greater good. Just, sometimes, Cas’s judgement doesn’t turn out to be all that reliable.

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s tired, he’s scared, and he’s fucking worried. Because he is certain that Cas didn’t do this. And, well, if he didn’t, that means someone else was involved, and that Cas is probably in a fucking hell of a lot of trouble.

Cas could be dead in a fucking lake for all Dean knows, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge that, so it’s easier to just scream and throw punches at Sam.

“He’s not just my fucking squeeze, Sam.” He spits out. “He’s my closest friend, yours too. We owe him the benefit of the doubt.”

“That’s what you said last time.” Sam points out.

“Enough.” Dean snaps. “Cas is missing, for fuck’s sake. He could be dead. Let’s find him first and then worry about this fucking bullshit of yours.”

“Fine. But—”

“No. Sam.”

Sam knows when to let it drop.

 

*

 

Dean searches the crime scene with such painstaking thoroughness that it takes nearly twice as long as usual. He is rewarded, though. In one of the angel’s pockets, tucked deep down and out of sight, is a motel key. He takes it, sleight of hands it away under the noses of the officers on the scene.

He doesn’t feel guilty about corrupting the crime scene. The less the regular police can glean from this the better. If something has the juice to off ten angels, regular human cops aren’t going to have a hope.

 

*

 

The motel room is immaculate, the bed clearly not slept in. And of course not, it was inhabited by angels. He’s not sure why they’d even need a room. Sure they can’t fly, but they don’t need to eat or sleep or do any of the other human things – unless they were in the process of falling, perhaps.

They only find one thing of interest, tucked under the mattress. A notebook, full to bursting with names, thick and fat with extra sheathes of paper and smudged ink.

Dean thumbs through it and settles on a random page. The first line, written in old fashioned, looping script, contains two familiar names.

_HAEL: Earth. Dead. Sympathies unknown. Cause of death – Castiel._

Dean frowns at it, looks at the next lines.

_REMIEL: Heaven. Angel. Suspect Negative._

_PENIEL: Earth. Fallen. Sympathetic but not supportive. 128 E Wash ST, Jetmore, KS 67854_

“Shit, Sam. This is a list of angels.”

“What?”

“Look. Angel names, whether they’re fallen or still, y’know, juiced. There’s a fucking address for this one.”

“That might be why those angels got killed.”

“For this.”

“An angel directory. I can think of a lot of reasons why someone would want to get their hands on it.”

“Yeah, and none of why _Cas_ would want to.”

Sam diverts him from the argument he clearly wants to start up again.

“Is Cas in it?”

“Dunno. It’s not in any sort of order that I can see.”

“Do you wanna check, and I’ll carry on looking around?”

Dean nods, thumbs through to the start of the book. There it is, the very first entry, written in shaky handwriting.

_CASTIEL: Earth. Unknown. DANGEROUS. Volatile and untrustworthy. Sympathies towards himself and Michael and Lucifer’s vessels only. Known angel killer. Dangerous whether fallen or angel. Avoid at almost certain risk of death._

Well, isn’t that just swell. The angels that Sam suspects Cas killed, had Cas as hitman number one in their little book of the heavenly host. He contemplates ripping the page out, hiding it from Sam or fucking setting fire to it.

Before he can make a decision either way, Sam comes back over, looks at the page.

“Don’t say a word, Sam.”

He holds up his hands, tries to look innocent, but Dean can feel the withheld accusation, creeping and crawling along his fucking skin, scratching and biting at the last remaining thread of calmness and sanity that he is somehow managing to hold on by.

Cas is missing, fucking gone with barely a trace for five hours now. Do you know how much damage can be done in five hours? There might not be any of him left alive to find. God knows, he’s got fucking enemies. Angels, demons, half the fucking supernatural spectrum is out there somewhere, gunning for Cas’s blood.

And instead of backing him up, Dean’s fucking brother, the person he really fucking needs right now, is too busy throwing around baseless fucking accusations to be of any help.


	13. Lincoln Fireball

Dean and Sam head back to the scene, and, by tacit agreement, they split up. There’s a tension between them now, and a definite feeling that if they don’t both have some time to cool off and calm down, then at least one of them is going to say something he regrets.

 

*

 

“A Continental? Yeah, I saw one. Dirty like off-cream colour?”

“That’s the one.”

“It was heading south down Main Street, way over the speed limit. I was gonna pull it over when I got the call to come in for this.”

“Great. And have there been any other reports, anyone seen it?”

“Nah. I can put out an APB for it though, if it’s important?”

Sam only considers it briefly before he rejects the offer. Best to keep the police out of this .

“Nah, it’s nothing major. We’ve got bigger things to deal with here.”

“That we have.”

He calls Dean.

“Got a cop here, says he saw the Continental heading south down Main St.”

“How long ago?”

“Just before the sirens, so over an hour ago.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“We know he was here recently, that’s good, right.”

“You okay to boost yourself a car?”

“You’re not going after him, are you?”

“Of course I fucking am.”

“So what, you’re just gonna point south and _hope?”_

“You got a better fucking plan?”

“Yeah. Stay here and talk to witnesses, try and work out what’s going on.”

“We only need one person to talk to witnesses.”

“We don’t know what’s going on here, Dean. We should at least stick close, in case we need back-up.”

“Every second we piss against the wall could be a second where Cas is being fucking skinned or something.”

“Even if you do find Cas and he _is_ in trouble, how are you gonna rescue him without backup?”

“I’ll fucking manage. I always do.”

Dean hangs up and Sam tries his very hardest not to smash the phone on the ground.

 

*

 

“Hey, Cas.” Dean says, after the beep. “We’re kinda worried about you, man. Call me, first chance you get, yeah.”

 

*

 

Dean makes good progress, until he doesn’t. Every time he comes to a fork in the road, he manages to find someone helpful, someone who saw the Continental go past. He might have hated that Pimpmobile at first, but she’s distinctive, and now he’s so grateful for it that he promises the car a fucking tune up the moment he gets her and Cas home. He’s going to treat her with all the beauty and reverence of the Impala, get deep in her guts and tweak and polish until she gleams inside and out.

He won’t even passive aggressively offer to give her a lick of paint. He’ll leave her in all her gloriously ugly beauty.

 

*

 

It’s going to take a lot of work to make the Continental gleam again, Dean thinks, as he looks at the burned and twisted wreckage.

She looks worse than when the Impala got totalled by that truck. Then the damage was just crumple zones and ruptured metal. This is all that, and flames too. The car has been burned out beyond all recognition, probably beyond all repair too. Not that that’s going to stop him trying. In the future. At some point.

Dean saw the smoke from a distance, could already feel the twisting, sinking, coiling fear in his gut start to spread, oil slick and heavy, gushing up into his limbs and body. He thinks he’d be able to see it, if he took his eyes off the road, looked down at his skin. Black, paralysing fear, branching through his veins like the encroaching darkness.

He pulls up by the side of the road, sees the scorched, black mess of a human being in the front seat, and throws up against a tree. He’s got a strong stomach, has done for a long time. Not that strong. Not when it comes to the charcoaled, blackened bones of people he loves.

He doesn’t want to get closer, self-preservation and other bury-your-head-in-the-sand instincts rearing up and telling him if he doesn’t get close, doesn’t see Cas’s remains, he won’t be dead.

And then he looks up again, and there’s nothing in the front seat. Just an empty car.

He rubs at his eyes, looks again and sees nothing. He darts over to one of the other people by the side, fucking rubberneckers.

“My partner, he – did you see?” He can’t get the words out in sentences. Luckily the woman appears to understand.

“There’s no-one dead.”

“Where’s the driver?”

“We don’t know. No-one saw the accident. We just saw the smoke. The car was empty and the fire had almost burned itself out by the time any of us got here.”

Dean doesn’t know whether he feels relief, or terror.

He approaches the car, sucks in deep lungful’s of smoky air and coughs it back up. He peers in the front seat, sees nothing untoward, looks in the back.

Someone comes over and tries to shoo him away, but he waves his badge at them until they retreat.

There’s only one place left to check now, the trunk .

He pops it open. Smoke billows out from something inside, something still on fire. He grabs it, throws it on the floor and stamps out the flames.

A trench coat. Not the original, that’s long lost, but its replacement. It’s wrapped around something, and Dean untangles it carefully.

It’s another copy of the book he found in the Motel. Looks like someone was trying to destroy it. Maybe one of the angels listed in it found out about it, rightly decided it was a threat and went to confront the other angels. And maybe Cas got caught in the crossfire.

 He wraps the book back up, stows it safely in the Impala, returns to the Continental.

He makes everyone stand back, out of the way, and looks for prints, signs of disturbance or anything that might show which way the driver and his passenger went.

He thinks he sees signs of a tussle or something, scuffed grass and turned up dirt. It could just have easily have been done by the fucking crowd hanging around though. He can’t take anything for granted. He has to be a hunter, has to look at all this objectively.

Ha. Like that’s gonna be fucking possible.

He examines the disturbed ground, decides it looks like there’s a slight trail leading away. He follows it, comes up with nothing, so he doubles back and sweeps the area, again and again. He makes increasingly large circles, doesn’t find a thing. 

 

*

 

“Hey, Dean.”

“I found the Continental.”

Sam can already hear the bad news in his voice. He scrubs at his face. He’s only got more to add to it.

“Yeah?”

“Burned out, no sign of life.”

“Shit.”

“No sign of anyone in the area, either.”

“What else?” He can tell by the way Dean talks, slowly, like the words are being clawed out without his permission, that there’s something.

“In the trunk, I found another copy of that book.”

“Someone was trying to torch it?”

“Looks that way.”

“What are you thinking?”

“That someone in this book is pissed off, and that Cas got caught in the crossfire.”

“About that.”

“What?”

“The police have a suspect.”

“Good for them.”

“He matches Cas’s description.”

“So? Doesn’t mean he did it?”

“Dean—”

Dean hangs up.

 

*

 

Hannah hears Dean’s prayer long before he puts it into formal words. It’s a tug, visceral, at the center of her being as he swings wildly between wanting her help and thinking she’ll be a hindrance. She ignores him for as long as she can. He wants her help finding Castiel. Well, it was only a matter of time before he said or did something that drove Castiel away. She’s not at his beck and call to help mediate lover’s tiffs.

She doesn’t like Dean, blames him for Castiel’s refusal to return to his rightful place at the head of the host, for his subsequent fall into humanity. And anyway, she has no idea where Castiel is, the Enochian on his ribs sees plainly enough to that.

She knows that Castiel would want her to help him, knows that he would be angry at her if he knew what she was doing. That’s why she relents, eventually. She has enough to occupy her time without having to deal with whatever dumb scrapes Dean Winchester has involved himself in this time.

She thinks about waiting until he’s fallen asleep, but he’s worked himself up into such a state of agitation that she doubts that is going to happen anytime soon. There isn’t even a lingering roundness of drink to his thoughts, which is unusual. From what she knows of Dean she expected that to be his first recourse in a breakup or tantrum or whatever this is.

All of this means that he’s unlikely to pass out any time soon, and therefore she’s going to have to get a little creative in order to contact him.

 

*

 

Dean’s phone rings, but there’s no number on the screen. He answers it anyway.

“Dean. Can you hear me?”

“Hannah?”

“Yes.”

“This is, weird.”

“How else did you expect me to contact you? I don’t have wings and you refuse to sleep.”

“I didn’t know you guys could, y’know, hack the phones.”

“It’s all waves.”

“Okay. Is this safe?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this line secure, can anyone else hear us?”

“No. We’re shielded. Only you and I are party to what is said.”

“Okay. Shit. Good.”

“Now what do you want, Dean Winchester?”

“Cas is missing.”

“Yes. I heard your prayers. I don’t see why your quarrel has anything to do with me, though.”

“We haven’t quarrelled!”

“Then why did he leave you?” He can hear her fucking head tilt from here.

“I don’t think he did.” Dean snaps. It’s like trying to explain fucking internal combustion to a Chihuahua. “I think he was taken, or he got in the middle of something, and I need your help finding him.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a lot worse than fucking ‘oh’.”

He rapidly fills her in, the dead angels, Cas missing, Sam’s reaction, the notebook. Fuck it, he doesn’t really know her, but Cas trusts her. That’s enough for him.

And god, does it feel good to get it off his chest, even if it’s to such literal silence that he has to ask Hannah several times if she’s still on the line.

“I see.” Is her eloquent, helpful reply.

“Am I going mad? Is Sam right?”

“I don’t see why Castiel would slaughter so many of his brothers and sisters. He deplores angelic violence.”

“S’what I told Sam.”

“This is very suspicious.”

“Yeah, no duh.”

 “From what I gather humans feel things so much more deeply than angels. Maybe he’s having trouble adjusting to the difference. Are you sure you didn’t have some disagreement, something he wasn’t equipped or prepared to deal with?”

“We were good, man. We were great. We’d finally finished moving in together the night before – bought all new furniture and painted our room and set it all up. We were great.”

And then she says something that makes Dean want to throw up again.

“Is it possible that he left for another reason? That he got, what’s the human expression, cold feet?”

“No.”

“You understand why I ask.”

“Yeah, but you’re wrong.”

“It would be preferable.”

“To him being dead? Yeah, it would. Fucking unlikely though.”

“I had to ask.”

“Yeah. You did. So, can you help me out?”

“I can’t trace him, you know that.”

“Yeah.”

“And I can’t let the host know.”

“I know. He’s got a lot of enemies.”

“Yes. I have some trusted lieutenants, though. I wouldn’t usually spare them…”

“But it’s Cas.”

“It is.”

“Thank you, Hannah.”

“I’m not doing this for you. Castiel is my brother and my friend, and he might be in serious danger.”

“I don’t care who you’re doing it for. S’long as you’re doing it.”

“I assume you have a plan, in the meantime.”

“Yeah. Gonna hit up the angels on this list, see if I can scope anything out.”

“They won’t be happy to see you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He can hear her sigh down the phone.

“Keep this phone on at all times. I’ll contact you if there are any developments.”

She hangs up before he can say thanks again.

Dean takes in a great, heaving breath. It feels strange having angels on his side; he’s pretty fucking grateful though.


	14. Not Waving but Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Stevie Smith poem, _[Not Waving but Drowning](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/poem/175778)_

Sam has no luck with witnesses. They all say the same thing: a man matching Cas’s description went running into the warehouse. They don’t know what happened before that, they don’t know what happened after that, and not a single one of them saw him leave. One of them saw the Continental speeding away. She couldn’t tell him whether or not Cas was driving it, she couldn’t even tell him whether there was one person in the car or more.

 

*

 

Dean’s thumb hovers over his phone. He is, of course, debating whether or not to call Sam. He doesn’t exactly want to go knocking on angel’s doors without support, but equally, he doesn’t want more fucking lecturing about being realistic and considering all the possibilities.

He needs to eat – he’s running on fumes and fear – but he can’t fucking stop. What if it turns out Cas is being tortured, and Dean arrives too late because he stopped for a fucking burger? He grabs an energy drink, chugs it as he drives, eats handfuls of M&M’s. Sugar, caffeine and taurine. What more could a human body need.

The angel nearest to their current location is a specimen by the name of Afriel. Listed as “unsympathetic.” Suggests she/he/it (Dean isn’t too hot on the specifics of angel genders. He had asked Cas to explain once, but the answer had made his brain hurt) isn’t too good with the other angels.

By the time Dean arrives he’s buzzing, and not in a good way. Who on earth would have thought that caffeine would make an already upset and twitchy mess even worse.

He sits at the steering wheel and tries to push everything away, supress and tamp down and just keep fucking moving. He can feel it, the sick, boiling fucking hopelessness, rising in the pit of his stomach, and for the first time today, he can’t stop it.

It seizes him, grabs him in a vice and folds him in half.

Cas is gone. Not just nipped out, not just see you next week. Gone. Maybe never coming back. Maybe dead, maybe just taken, as if that makes it better. Who fucking knows. What matters is that he’s gone and Dean might never see him again.

He’s gone, and Dean can’t do anything about it. Not really. He has the most tenuous of leads, a fucking list of angels who might have done something but probably haven’t. Cas has been taken and whoever did it won’t have left any clues behind at their fucking house.

He might _never_ see him again.

That thought paralyses him. He tries to get up out of the car and his legs won’t obey him. His arms start to shake and he makes a low, animal groan. That one sound gives way to another, until he’s moaning, low and continuous, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

He’s lost Cas before, it’s not like this is new for him, but it’s worse. Before he lost a friend, he lost a brother. This time he’s lost the person he’s been building his world around.

 

*

 

He doesn’t see the headlights. The first thing he knows is the car door is being opened and he’s being pulled out of the vehicle by familiar hands.

“Hey, Dean, hey.” Sam’s tone is gentle.

He doesn’t reply, he can’t. He can’t stop the rough, broken noise coming out of his mouth. Sam holds him tight against his chest until it becomes apparent that the shaking isn’t going to stop, folds him into the passenger seat and drives them back to a motel.

He settles Dean down on the bed, but it doesn’t seem right to leave him like that. He looks so small, curled in on himself, quiet now but still shaking slightly. Sam unlaces both their boots, settles on the bed behind him, and hugs him close like he hasn’t since they were children.

He had no idea he was taking it this hard, Dean and his fucking internalized emotions. He seemed fine, on edge, but well enough that Sam didn’t think twice about what he was saying. God, he knew he wasn’t being sensitive, and he knew he was really pissing Dean off, but he didn’t think what that anger might be covering, didn’t process just how much he’d be hurting.

It’s like if someone came up to him after Jess, tried to persuade him she hadn’t died after all, that she’d fucking betrayed him and fucked off instead.

Jesus, it took a celestial text from Hannah of all people.

**— Dean’s distress is giving every angel in a mile radius a headache.**

**— What? Who is this?**

**— Hannah. I know about Castiel, I talked to Dean earlier. He’s currently very upset. He needs help, and for you to be supportive.**

Fucking emotional advice from angels. Jesus.

 

*

 

Dean wakes up with another body wrapped around his, and for a moment he forgets. He sighs contentedly, rolls over to face Cas and kiss him good morning.

Only to see Sam’s oversized face.

It hits him like every stab wound he’s ever had. Too many to count. It’s not just that, though. It’s the _shame._ He remembers his breakdown in the car yesterday – how Sam somehow knew to come to his rescue. So not only was he letting Cas down himself by being out of action – fucking sitting in the car and crying – he pulled Sam away too.

He pushes himself out of bed, stuffs his feet into his boots and starts to lace them up. He feels dizzy with hunger, but he can fix that. Power bar and an energy drink. He’ll be good to go.

Sam stirs.

“What’re you doing?”

“Going after Cas.” He rasps.

“Dean, wait—”

Sam stumbles out of the bed, stands between Dean and the door.

“No. I’ve waited the entire night. It’s been nearly twenty hour fours since we noticed him gone. I can’t waste any more time.”

“It’s not wasting time to sleep, Dean. You’ll be no good to Cas if you burn out. We don’t know who’s taken him or why – we need you in top shape to get him back.”

“Oh, so now you believe he didn’t do it, huh?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, and you were right, Dean. Okay. Doesn’t matter what the evidence suggests, this is Cas. We know him.”

Sam hasn’t let go of his suspicions entirely – or at all – but he knows that this isn’t what Dean needs to hear.

Some of the fight goes out of Dean at Sam’s words, but he carries on trying to lace his shoes.

“Dean, your hands are shaking. You won’t be able to hold a gun or a knife, defend yourself. Cas wouldn’t want you to get yourself killed looking for him.”

“If that’s the price…” Dean mutters, under his breath.

Sam turns on him, really angry now.

“Don’t go down that road, Dean. The last thing he’d want is for you to die rescuing him – you’d ask him to live with that?”

Dean wants to say, better than me living with it, but he doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean he’d rather Cas was the one who suffered, or maybe he does. Alive and suffering is better than fucking dead. He doesn’t say any of this, though, because he’s too tired to start another fight, doesn’t have the energy to waste on stupid fucking squabbles when Cas is out there, alone, most likely hurt and scared.

He waits impatiently for Sam dress himself, doesn’t put up any real resistance as he is taken by the arm and lead to a diner. Sam orders them both a full, greasy breakfast. The sort of thing he’d usually sigh and tut at Dean for. Sam has a feeling about today, and it isn’t a good one. They both need fortification.

The food arrives and Dean can’t find the appetite to eat, cuts it up and pushes it around his plate. He stuffs a forkful in his mouth to stop Sam staring, chews and chews and chews but he can’t generate enough saliva to swallow.

It doesn’t go down easy, and he doesn’t want to try again, but Sam forces him. Tells him it’s just fuel, just get it down so you’re body has something to run on. You’ll be no help to Cas starving yourself to death.

It’s the shame that spurs Dean on, forces him to swallow down thick, disgusting, greasy mouthfuls. It’s the only emotion that comes close to cresting the fear simmering low and deep in the pit of his stomach. He’s ashamed that he’s in this state, ashamed that Sam is seeing him like this. Ashamed that he has to be fucking babysat instead of doing his job and rescuing Cas.

 

*

 

There’s no car in the drive and no lights on at Afriel’s listed address. Sam knocks on the door, receives no answer. Almost certainly no-one home, then. That’s good, they want to try and avoid talking to the angel face to face – don’t know how they’ll take the sudden appearance of Sam and Dean, notorious hunters and killers of more than one angel. Not well, they assume,

Breaking in will give them plenty of time to scope the place out before they start risking stab wounds.

Dean picks the lock while Sam stands by and keeps watch. It’s a pretty sketchy looking area and he doubts any neighbourhood watch curtain-twitchers are going call the police – but you can never be certain.

Dean’s taking an unusually long time with the door – he’s the better lock pick of the two of them. He’d have any normal front door wide open by now. Sam risks a glance around.

“Tricky lock?”

“Something like that.” Dean says, too sharply.

“We can break in through the window?”

“You try the door; I think my pick’s screwed.”

Sam moves over to swap places as Dean gives the pick one final jimmy. He stops quickly once he realises Sam can see him, but he sees enough. No wonder he can’t get it open. His hands are shaking again, rough trembles and tremors.

Sam deliberately fumbles with the lock for longer than he needs to. Dean doesn’t even notice, caught up somewhere in his own head.

Eventually they get the door open, step into the house. They scope it out with guns raised, covering each other as they clear the building.

It’s the last room they come to, it always is.

There’s a body in the bedroom. Or what’s left of one.

Dean blanches at the sight, remembering the Continental. It smells different, though. The smell of charred metal verses sizzling flesh. An undercurrent of something else, too. He sees Cas’s face on the body, he knows it’s not, deep in his gut, but he can’t help it. He can’t.

“That smell,” Sam’s voice, a hand on his shoulder – they pull him back to the room, “it’s familiar.”

“Holy fire.” Dean answers, without a moment of hesitation.

It’s the reason he knows this charred corpse doesn’t belong to Cas. Because he’s not an angel, you wouldn’t need to light him up with holy fire. You could just stab him, or shoot him, or poison him, or break his neck or any of a hundred thousand other things. He’s so fucking fragile.

 “It’s not him, Dean.”

“I fucking know that.”

“Do you wanna check the room and I’ll do the body?”

“Why not.”

Dean pokes around the room, back to the burned mess on the bed. If he can’t see it, it can’t turn itself into someone more familiar.

He sweeps the obvious areas first, finds nothing much. Another footprint on the ground. Same tread as before. See, he watches CSI. Not usually their sort of thing, though. Footprints and fingerprints and trails. Hunting is usually more brutal, less subtle. Who’s that holding a beating heart in their hand? Let’s put a silver knife through their carotid artery.

Sure there’s detective work and critical thinking and brilliant leaps, but they’re never quite on a forensic level.

Dean’s often wondered if it’d help. Obvious trails of blood and guts are all very well, but how many monsters slip through the net because they’re a little more subtle.

If he was the type of person who got a chance to go to college, get a degree and learn that short of shit, he thinks that might be something that would have interested him, in another fucking life. He likes piecing things together, is good at solving puzzles and gets a real fucking rush when he works it out.

Another fucking life.

He snaps a photo of the footprint on his phone, just to have it, he doesn’t know. It seems like a good idea. His sweep turns up nothing else, so he starts to look deeper – in cupboards, under dressers and, once he can steel himself to get near enough to it – under the bed.

He strikes gold under the bed. Or not. He strikes, something.

Clue gold. Not so gold in other respects.

He finds a necklace, one that he recognises intimately, because he bought it. Rubbish and cheesy, a little two dimensional brass angel on a chain, wings and a gown and trumpet. He bought it for Cas as a joke. Didn’t expect Cas to stubbornly wear it every day, tucked up under his shirt.

The chain is snapped in two, and the little angel and some of the rest are slick with blood and oil.

It looks, to the suspicious eye, like Cas got in a fight with someone covered in blood and holy oil, someone who grabbed his necklace hard enough to snap it. Someone fighting back, trying to thrust away a match or a lighter or a knife or something.

But that’s not what happened.

 

*

 

Sam examines the body. According to the book and the evidence in front of them, this was an angel, so studying the body can’t really tell them too much. The angel’s vessel was a man, grizzled, meth chewed teeth, might have had hair, might not have. There’s not really enough left to tell anything. Age or interests or hair colour or how long he’d been occupied.

The smell of holy oil is strongest next to the body, unsurprisingly. Sam doesn’t check it out too closely, there’s nothing much to see.

 

*

 

Dean almost pockets the necklace – to hide it from Sam, to have something of Cas’s to hold to himself, he doesn’t know. But eventually he proffers it, grudgingly.

“This is Cas’s.”

“You sure?”

“I bought it for him.”

“Okay. So, he was here.”

“Or whoever took him is laying us a false trail.”

“Or that.” Sam agrees. He can’t keep the scepticism out of his voice, but either Dean lets it slide, or he isn’t listening.

 

*

 

They don’t find anything else in the house. Not a single clue. Just one bloody necklace and a footprint. It’s suspicious. Two fucking clues hanging over their heads like a giant neon sign. Dean won’t fucking have it.

 

*

**— Afriel is dead.**

**— How?**

**— Holy fire.**

**— That is unfortunate.**

**— Cas’s necklace was at the scene, covered in blood + holy oil.**

**— I see.**

**— Yeah.**

**— Are you still certain he was uninvolved?**

**— Yes!**

**— Okay.**

**—A ny news from ur guys?**

**— I said I would contact you the moment I heard something.**

**— K**


	15. Knocking on Heaven's Doors

The second angel they visit goes by the name of Charbiel. They had intended to break into her house as well, but she spots Sam in the grocery store and approaches him cautiously.

“Sam Winchester?”

“Yes…”

“My name is Charbiel.”

“We – we were on our way to visit you.”

“Oh?” She can read the tension in his tone.

“Yeah, um, we’ve come across an unusual number of dead angels recently. We’ve been keeping an eye out, warning any we see or know the location of.”

A lie, but near enough to the truth.

“That’s very kind of you.” He can hear the unspoken, _how did you know where I lived_ , in her tone.

“Yeah, well.”

“I feel like there’s something else you aren’t telling me.”

“Yeah, but, well. I don’t know you. I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“That’s fair.”

“Just, have you seen anything strange – suspicious people, angels, whatever?”

“I haven’t seen anything, but, in return for your kindness in warning me, I will exchange phone numbers with you, and call you if anything untoward happens.”

“That, that would be great, thanks.”

“It’s not a problem. I’d ask you don’t let anyone know where I am?” Charbiel asks, even though now that she’d been found, there’s no way she’s going to stay here. She said she’d keep Sam informed, she never said she trusted him in any way whatsoever.

 

*

 

“You!” Tsadkiel snarls, lunging forward with his blade and trying to drive it into Dean’s heart.

Dean parries with the demon knife, but his hands are shaking so hard that he almost misses. Sam shoots the angel, not that it’ll hurt it, but hopefully it’ll at least slow the son of a bitch down.

It picks the bullet out and flicks it back at Sam, who throws himself to the side.

Tsadkiel grabs Dean by the neck, picks him up and snarls.

“You have killed so many of my—”

He doesn’t get to finish the last sentence. Dean slams his hand against the banishing sigil drawn in blood on his arm. Tsadkiel screams, vanishes.

“You alright?” Sam bounds over.

Dean waves him off.

“I took precautions.”

“Yeah, I saw. You can’t do that for every battle though, that’s too much blood to lose on a regular basis.”

“I’ll work it out, for now we’ve got an apartment to search.”

“Yeah. Shame we don’t have any holy oil, would have been good to question him.”

“Don’t.”

 

*

 

He hasn’t slept in four days. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Cas’s body, burned or slashed or blown up. A mix of memories and imagination.

The tremor in his hands is almost constant now. He tries to hide it from Sam, but he knows Sam sees. He doesn’t even try to pick locks any more. He lets Sam do all the fine fingered stuff. He pretends that he doesn’t spill water when he holds a glass. Pretends he doesn’t struggle to zip up his fly and lace his boots.

It takes him four days to turn to the whiskey. He thinks that’s impressive, given the circumstances.

He runs a shower, scalding hot, and stands under it with a bottle of Jack. He sips at first, but the burn in his throat comforts him enough that soon he’s quaffing it down. A physical sensation that somewhat matches the mess inside. He drinks until his belly is warm and his bottle is empty. He drinks until his eyes won’t stay closed or dry, climbs out of the shower and collapses face first on the bed.

He doesn’t sleep well, but at least he sleeps.

 

*

 

He’s tired and hungover when he wakes. He needs more sleep, sober sleep. He can’t afford that. Instead he throws back a handful of painkillers, non-drowsy. As ever, it doesn’t take Sam long to stir.

“Up already?”

“Yeah, well, y’know me. Don’t need much sleep.”

“Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“And then to the next name on the list.”

“Hopefully this one won’t try and kill us.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.” Sam tries for a light tone. He’s not really fooling anyone.

 

*

 

Matriel is standing in a field when they find him. He looks up at them, stays still and calm as they move closer.

Something about his grin alerts Dean. He piles into Sam, throws him backwards and covers him with his own body.

The angel explodes in a blast of white.

Farcical chunks of vessel and root vegetable fly around them, and there’s a crater in the ground nearly as deep as Dean’s knees.

 

*

 

Sam discovers the empty whiskey bottles – imposes a strict moratorium on spirits of any kind. Just means Dean has to drink beers instead. He only drinks in the evening, when there’s silence, when all he can hear is his own thoughts and the ringing in his ears.

 

*

 

They know Hagiel is dead even before they get to his house. The ring of sirens – police, firemen, an ambulance.

Badges are flashed and entry is gained.

They find a scorched corpse, almost nothing else. Almost.

Cas’s mobile phone. The screen is smashed, like it’s been dropped or in a fight. Instead of the old background picture, Dean and Cas, there’s a heavenly symbol. All angles and corners. Dean doesn’t know what it means, but he snaps a picture of it, anyway.

Maybe it’s some kind of mind control.

Maybe Cas just didn’t want to be reminded of Dean every time he looked at his phone.

 

*

 

They’ve been striking so many names off the list, either dead when they found them, or dead by the time they left them, that it comes as a surprise to be greeted with something other than blood or rage.

Druiel opens the front door of his shabby apartment, smiles warmly. His vessel is young, mid-twenties at a guess, and he wears it well. Like it was the body he was born into, and not a skin he’s been inhabiting. And it’s still weird as all fuck seeing an angel in jeans and a hoodie, but somehow he makes it work.

“Sam, Dean.”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam says, because Dean doesn’t say much these days. Every day that passes makes him a little quieter, a little colder.

“You’re welcome to come inside.”

Sam can feel Dean tense up beside him, expecting viciousness or a trap.

“How do you know who we are?” Sam asks, warily.

“Every angel knows who you are.” Druiel replies with a patient, soft smile.

“Yeah, and that usually results in them trying to kill us.” Dean croaks. Too little sleep and too much beer haven’t been kind to his throat. Or any of the rest of him, for that matter.

“Your actions have made you many enemies, a few friends too.”

“Yeah, and you count yourself amongst the latter, do you?” Dean asks, an incongruous bitterness colouring his tone.

Sam glares at him – be polite, this guy could help.

“You don’t trust me, I understand. Where’s Castiel? I am given to understand that he travels with you now. He could vouch for me.”

Dean makes a low noise at the mention of Cas, too quiet for anyone but himself to hear. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, where no one can see them. Clenches his fists so tight his fingernails threaten to snap under the pressure in an attempt to stop the tremor from travelling up and into the rest of his body too.

“He’s not with us at the moment. Urgent business.” Sam lies, smoothly.

“A shame.” Druiel sounds genuinely regretful, but Dean doesn’t trust it.

It’s too easy. He knows something, he must. Why else would he bring up Cas like that. Maybe he’s got him hidden in the basement, fucking tied up and struggling, while he stands up here and exchanges small talk with a triumphant fucking smile underneath. Never mind that this place doesn’t have a basement, never mind that Druiel’s done nothing whatsoever to arouse suspicion or indicate that they ought to distrust him.

“What about Hannah?” Sam asks.

“I know Hannah. She isn’t fond of me, but she would vouch for my sympathies.”

“Why doesn’t she like you?” Sam suspects, but he wants to hear Druiel’s answer.

“She wasn’t pleased that I chose to stay here on earth.”

“Figures.” Dean snorts.

Sam sends a quick text. As always, she replies immediately.

**— Hannah?**

**— Yes.**

**— We’re here with Druiel, can we trust him?**

**— Yes.**

“Hannah seems to think he’s kosher.”

Dean rolls his shoulders, like he’s squaring up for a fight. It’s never a good sign.

“How do we even know you are Druiel? I’ve been stung by that before.”

The angel sighs.

“Hand me your phone, Sam.”

Sam does nervously.

The angel frowns at them. “You may want to cover your ears.”

His eyes glow white and the same symbol appears on the phone as was on Cas’s. It takes Dean a moment to recognise it, and then he’s lunging forward. Only to be stopped, as the angel speaks in his true voice.

It’s louder, more vicious than Cas’s, all those years ago. Dean covers his ears, tries not to scream while Sam does the same.

Eventually it stops. Druiel pants, like he’s having difficulty breathing, hands the phone back over to Sam.

“Dean, you may wish to send a message to Hannah. I assume if I direct you to do it from this phone, you’ll think I’ve tampered with it.”

He thinks exactly fucking right. Dean’s burning up with the need to know what that symbol is, but he does as he’s told. If it turns out this angel is trustworthy, well, it’ll make a nice change from having to stab the answers out of someone.

**— Hannah?**

**— Yes.**

**— What just happened?**

**— Druiel spoke to me using his true voice.**

**— Yeah I got that, why?**

**— To reassure me that he was the angel he claimed to be.**

**— Why couldn’t he use angel radio?**

**— It isn’t secure and he’s in hiding.**

**— Is he legit?**

**— That is Druiel. He’s a good angel, it’s a shame he chose to live amongst humanity in one of their stolen bodies, instead of doing his duty with the host.**

**— So I can trust him?**

**— As much as any angel.**

**— Well ur fucking helpfully vague.**

**— He will likely assist you, if you ask him.**

**— U want me to tell him about Cas?!**

**— No. But tell him everything else. He might see a pattern we don’t.**

**— If this goes south, I’m coming for u.**

**— I don’t doubt it.**

**— Any news?**

**— Stop asking.**

“Hannah says you check out.” Dean says, reluctantly.

“Excellent.” Druiel says. “Now, would you like to come in?”

He leads the way into his sitting room, invites them both to sit down. Sam perches himself on the worn sofa, Dean shakes his head, stays standing. Druiel accepts his reluctance with a nod, makes sure to leave the living room door open so he doesn’t feel trapped. He might be an angel, but he understands humans and their peculiarities very well.

“I’m glad Hannah was able to convince you. I don’t know what else I could have done otherwise.”

“I’m still not convinced, but Hannah thinks I should tell you what’s going on.” Dean snaps.

“I know that angels are dying. Some at your hand, some not.”

“Someone is lighting them up with holy fire.” Sam puts in, before Dean gets too prickly.

“I see.”

“About two weeks ago we found a warehouse full of dead angels. On one of their bodies was a motel key. We went to the room, searched it, found this.” Sam proffers the book.

Druiel flicks through it quickly.

“And this is how you knew to find me?”

He sounds worried, as well he should be. Having your address listed in a fucking phone directory doesn’t really help with the whole laying low thing.

“Yes.”

“Is this the only copy?”

“No, we have another one. Dean found it in a burned out vehicle that’d fled the scene.” Sam pointedly avoids mentioning Cas.

“Someone was trying to destroy it?” Druiel asks.

“Or trying to make it look like they wanted it destroyed.”

“And I take it that the angels who have been turning up dead, they were in this book?”

“Far as we can gather, yes.”

“That is… troubling. Do you think there was a third copy?”

“Must have been.”

Druiel flicks through the book again, looking carefully at all the names that have been crossed out, all that haven’t.

He notices that the first page has been torn out.

“There’s a page missing here.”

“Yeah, um. Don’t worry about it. That was us.” Sam answers hesitantly.

Us. Or Dean, picking up the book in a drunken fit from where it lay on the bed, open at the first page. Snarling at the sight of Cas’s entry, ripping it out and throwing the book across the room, crumpling the paper up in his fist and dropping it on the floor, swaying and leaning as he reached for another bottle.

“I assume it wasn’t important?”

Sam isn’t sure how to answer. Not without setting Dean off.

“It was about Cas.” Dean beats him to it.

“Ah, and you removed it for his safety, in case the book was lost?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“I see.”

“Can you see any pattern?” Sam asks, to derail the conversation and because, you know, maybe they’re onto something here. “Or even tell us why someone would make a book like this in the first place?”

“If I wasn’t cut off from heaven by my own choice, if I was attempting to recruit – whether for safety in numbers or for something more forceful, this is exactly the sort of document I’d set about creating.” Druiel says.

Sam stops himself from shooting a significant look at Dean. The more he hears about this, the more he thinks his Cas gone rogue theory has potential. A group of angels massing and gathering on earth for mysterious and probably malicious reasons. Sounds exactly like the sort of trouble he’d throw himself into headfirst.

“And you just happened to come to this angelic rebel conclusion all by yourself did you?” Dean sneers.

Druiel smiles.

“What gave me away?”

“You didn’t quite manage to cover up all the scorch marks.” Dean gestures with his foot to a charcoal smear just poking out from under the rug.

“Interesting. I made sure that was hidden before I answered the door.”

“And there I was just doing the decent thing and straightening out your carpet.”

“What happened?” Sam cuts in.

“A few months back an angel called Morael passed through town. He happened to see me, and discerning that I was no threat, decided to settle nearby. It was nice, having companionship, another of my kind to talk to, discuss the host and the things we miss about heaven.”

“And then what?” Sam asks, assuming this isn’t just the story of how Druiel made a friend.

“And then one day he turned up rambling about other angels and a greater cause. He attempted to recruit me, and when I declined, he turned nasty. He said if I didn’t come willingly, then Hasdiel would have no choice but to take me by force.”

“Hasdiel?”

“One of Naomi’s protégés.”

Dean’s nails are dug so tight into his palm he’s drawing blood.

“So you killed Morael?” Sam asks, trying to move the conversation on.

“I had no choice.”

“So lemme get this straight,” Dean snarls, “someone threatens to come and brain-spike you into joining a cult, you kill them, and then you just stay sat in the same house, what, waiting here for us? Like I’m gonna fucking believe that.”

“I was preparing to leave when I received news of the warehouse massacre – Hasdiel was amongst the dead, as were all the other angels Morael had mentioned. I assumed that meant everyone who wished me harm and knew my whereabouts was dead, so I assumed I had nothing to fear. Until you arrived with that book.”

“Naïve.” Dean mutters. He’s not wholly convinced, wants to carry on gnawing away at the issue, but Sam’s _play nice_ scowl leashes him for the time being.

“Okay, so we get why the book was made.” Sam says. “But if you’re right, all of those angels are dead. So who’s attacking the others, and why only some?”

“I see a kind of pattern,” Druiel says, “but I need to know how each of these angels died. Which were dead when you got there, and which attacked you and forced you to defend yourselves?”

“Gimme the book and a piece of paper.” Sam says. “I’ll go through and write it all out for you.”

“Thank you.”

Dean can’t hold it in any longer.

“That symbol on Sam’s phone, when you called Hannah. What was it?”

“A simple enough sigil. It allows an angel in a vessel access to certain wavelengths. It’s a difficult procedure, to bind part of yourself to a physical body and send another trailing through the phone networks and all the way to heaven. The sigil helps.”

“Hannah manages it without anything appearing on our phones.”

“That is because she is in heaven, as a multidimensional wave length. I am tethered here, in flesh.”

“We found a phone.” Dean volunteers. “At one of the crime scenes. It had that symbol on it.”

Druiel frowns.

“That is… unusual.”

“Yeah.”

“I suspect it’s a human committing these new murders, but this suggests they have angelic help, or guidance.”

“What makes you think it’s a human?”

“Because no angel would risk killing another with holy oil. It’s too volatile, too easy to get the smallest splash on yourself, and go up with the blaze.”

“So an angel and a human, tag teaming.” Sam says.

The ringing in Dean’s ears is getting violent.

“I would think so.”

Sam hands over the sheet, covered in his untidy scrawl. Druiel glances at the list of names, nods gravely.

“Without exception, all of the angels killed with holy fire, are angels who stood against Castiel in his and Raphael’s civil war.”


	16. A Prayer for Lost Faith

“What are you trying to suggest?” Dean asks, calmly. Slowly.

“I don’t mean to imply anything—”

“Yes you do. Spit it out.” He snaps, realises before he can even process that he’s pressed up against Druiel, hands fisted in his collar and snarling in his face.

Sam’s hand on Dean’s shoulder tries to pull him back, but he shrugs it off.

“I know Castiel is missing.”

“Yeah, how? You the one who took him, huh?”

Dean’s hand slips into his pocket for his knife. He holds it up to Druiel’s neck, rests it against his pulse. Druiel doesn’t flinch, just accepts the trembling, shaking weapon at his throat, like he’s resigned to die.

“It’s not hard to work out.” He says, softly. “You’re frantic with worry, Castiel is nowhere around. Earlier when I mentioned him you seemed very distressed.”

Sam grabs hold of Dean, pulls him off. He doesn’t resist, not really. Not as much as he could.

“Dean thinks he’s been taken.” Sam says.

“And you are less certain.”

Sam prises the knife out of Dean’s grip before he answers.

“I think we need to consider all the options.”

“Why would he choose now?” Dean spits, letting anger reanimate him. “Why would he wait all these years and all this time to start a vendetta?”

“Why does he do anything? The guy’s a mystery. Maybe falling messed with his head.”

“He has _nothing_ to do with this.” Dean snaps.

“Maybe not deliberately.”

“So what, you think he’s under mind control again? He’s not even an _angel_.”

“Angels aren’t the only creatures that can be mind-controlled.” Druiel puts in.

“You think someone has put Cas under fucking hypnosis and is sending him around like a hitman, killing angels he disagreed with?” Dean’s tone is caustic and sceptical.

“I _hope_ that’s what happened.” Sam says.

“And if this is a trick? Something to throw us off track so we flounce around thinking Cas is safe, when really he’s tied up and being tortured somewhere?”

“It doesn’t matter whether it is or not.” Sam shrugs. “We’re still looking for him.”

Dean grunts. There’s a big difference between looking for someone who’s out in the open, moving around and murdering people, and looking for someone who’s been kidnapped and held somewhere. One you look at the trail of bodies, the other you look in basements and hope bodies are the last thing you come across.

“None of this fucking helps us.” Dean groans.  

All his energy is gone. It comes and goes in fits and starts, for little or no reason whatsoever. He needs a drink, or several. Just enough to take the edge off.

“I disagree.” Druiel says. “The killer is going through this book and using it to pick off a certain subset of angels.” He avoids mentioning Cas’s name. He may be an angel, but he’s good with people, and he doesn’t want to upset Dean even further. “If we go through and identify all of those angels we’ll be able to guess where the killer will strike next.”

“Only works if they’re going through the book in order.” Sam points out.

“Yes, but it at least shows you which angels are worth visiting, and which to avoid.”

“How many angels do you think that crosses off?”

“Most.”

“See, that’s helpful.” Sam says pointedly to Dean.

“Yeah, great.” He sighs, gives in to the clenching need in his gut and asks, “You got anything to drink in this joint?”

“I don’t eat or drink, but I keep some refreshments for humans who visit me in the fridge.”

“Sweet.”

Dean stumbles into the kitchen, grabs a beer out of the fridge. He flicks it open and drains it in one go. He can already feel it working, placebo effect or whatever, drowning the fear and the worry and rounding out his edges. He puts the bottle in the garbage, burps, and gets himself another. He sips at this, brings it back to the living room and glares at Sam like he’s daring him to challenge it. Nothing is said.

“So, who we going to visit first?”

“I suspect Muriel will be the next target. The killer seems to be following the order of the list.”

“Wait, there’s an angel named Muriel?” Dean scoffs. “What’s she the angel of, grandma perms and old lady skirts?”

“She’s the angel of June, actually, with special dominion over plants.”

“Huh.”

“I’ll come with you. If there is an angel involved, it would be good for you to have backup.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Sam looks at Dean in curiously. He hadn’t expected him to agree so readily – hadn’t expected him to agree at all.

 

*

 

The angel of June lives in a house that looks like it’s been invaded by a forest spirit from some Japanese cartoon. Vines and ivy grow all over the façade, the interior is dark and gloomy, full of exotic plants and just plain weird shit.

The angel herself, they find hidden under the bed. She grasps Dean’s ankle, hisses furiously.

“If you’ve come here to finish the job, just do it.”

He shakes her off.

“Hey, we’re not here to hurt you.”

She squints at him suspiciously.

“How do I know you’re not saying that just to lure me out?”

“Lady, you’re under a bed, not in a fucking fortress. If I wanted to kill you I’d just soak the bed in holy oil and light a match.” Dean doesn’t slur. He’s tipsy enough to smooth down the edges; he’s not too drunk to do his fucking job.

She harrumphs, crawls out and faces them with arms crossed.

“What do you want, then?”

She spots Druiel.

“Are you here to take me back to heaven? I’m not going. Not until things go back to how they should be; someone usurps that upstart bastard Castiel and his puppet queen.”

“I’m not here to force you to do anything.” Druiel reassures her.

She snorts.

“Good. Now what do you want?”

“You asked if we were here to ‘finish the job’.” Sam says. “What did you mean by that?”

“Someone visited me yesterday, tried to douse me with holy oil. I ran out into the forest and lost him, but I assume he’ll be back to finish the job.”

“And you thought under the bed was the best place to hide?” Dean snipes.

“At short notice, yes.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know.” She sneers. “Humans all look the same to me.”

“So it was a human?”

“Yes.”

“What colour was his hair, how tall was he?” Sam pries.

She sighs.

“Male. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, taller than you, but shorter than you.” She gestures at Druiel and then Dean. “Happy?”

“That sounds like Castiel’s vessel.” Druiel notes.

“That sounds like half the fucking population of America.” Dean snaps.

“Muriel,” Sam queries patiently, “would you recognise Castiel’s vessel, if he wasn’t in it?”

“Of course not. I told you, you all look the same to me. Grubs. Pointless, hairy grubs.” She sneers.

“Do you know why this person wanted to kill you?”

“He was muttering something about revenge. Revenge for what I don’t know. Maybe I grew a forest through his house and he took it badly.” She snickers.

 

*

 

“So, she was a great big sack of crazy.” Dean says, cracking open a beer and sitting down on his motel bed.

“How many of those have you had today?” Sam asks. It’s a token gesture more than anything. He won’t be able to stop Dean, but he can at least keep track of him, see if his consumption gets even more out of hand than it already is.

“None of your fucking business.”

“She wasn’t crazy.” Druiel says, in his infuriatingly measured tone. “She was merely struggling to adjust to a life without purpose.”

“Yeah, well. Ain't we all.” Dean snorts.

“So, what’s the plan? Scope out her place, just wait until she gets hit again?” Sam asks.

“We can take it in turns to stake out the house. There’s enough of us to make it easy – stick to 4 hour shifts.” Dean says.

“I don’t need sustenance or sleep. I would be happy to keep watch on Muriel for you.”

“Knock yourself out.”

 

*

 

“It’s been a week, Sam. I don’t think he’s coming back for this one. We’re wasting our time just fucking sitting here.” Dean slurs.

Their relative inactivity hasn’t been good for his drinking habits. When they were actively looking he was too busy to drink during the day, just stuck, mostly, to the evenings. Now he wakes with a bottle and goes to bed with one too. And no matter how much Sam berates him and asks him if he really thinks he’s going to be any fucking use if the call comes and he’s half-wasted, he carries on going. It’s the only thing that smothers the ringing in his ears.

“He hasn’t struck any of the other angels on the list either. I’ve been keeping an eye on the news.”

“Fucking weird.”

“It’s suspicious. The minute we get on his tail, he starts laying low.”

“Maybe Muriel injured him, or maybe there’s something she isn’t telling us.” Dean shrugs.

“So, what do you suggest we do?” Sam asks.

“I dunno. Visit more angels?”

“Why the hell not.”

 

*

 

“Yo. Druiel.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean frowns at the phone, but he’s blurry enough that the familiar words don’t jar too much.

“We were thinking, it’s been a while with no news. You okay to stick it out there with Muriel while we track down the rest of the angels on your list?”

“Of course.”

“Great, man. We’ll be too far away to call in, so look after yourself. This guy has taken out a lot of angels, don’t want you to be next.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Druiel sounds touched by Dean’s care for him.

“Yeah, well. We don’t have a lot of backup at the moment. Every angel on side is a winner.” Dean backpedals. Never let them see you care, even if it’s just whether they’re alive or dead.

“Of course. I’ll let you know if there’s any news.”

 

*

 

Muriel hums gently to herself as she taps out a text message with deft, careful fingers.

**— C?**

**— What?**

**— They’re gone. They left Druiel here to watch for your return.**

**— Kill him.**

**— I thought you didn’t like it when angels killed each other.**

**— You aren’t funny.**

**— I’m at least as funny as Uriel.**

**— Uriel is dead.**

**— Then I’m definitely more funny than Uriel.**

 

*

 

She opens the door of Druiel’s stolen car and slips into the passenger seat.

“Muriel.” He greets her. “I trust you are well.”

“Adequate.” She hums. “So, why all this bother?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you doing all of this – following the Winchesters around, just like their other loyal little dog?”

“I’m sympathetic to their aims.”

“You know what happened to their last pet, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Castiel. Didn’t you hear, he’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone.” She confirms, as she slips an angel blade in between his ribs.

 

*

 

Dean kneels down by his motel bed, draws in a couple of shaky breaths to steel himself, and then he clasps his hands together and prays.

“Hey, Cas. I know you ain’t got your ears on anymore, but man. I’m pretty desperate. I’ll try anything at this point. So, yeah, if you can hear me, um. If something took you, is keeping you there man. We’re doing our best to get you back, I promise. Hannah’s got her angels on the prowl, and me and Sammy, we found a book with all these angel’s names in it. That’s what we’ve been doing, visiting them all, trying to work out if one of them took you, or if one of them knows or whatever. We met an angel called Druiel. He’s alright. He’s being helpful, anyway.

“So, yeah. Just keep on holding on and I promise you, I promise we’ll get you, yeah.

“And if you didn’t get taken, if you left because I fucked up, or because I’m not good enough or because you realised you don’t love me or whatever, yeah. I get that. But please, just come home. Let’s talk about it. You can’t leave me hanging like this.

“Please. I just gotta know. Sam too. He thinks you’ve gone darkside again, that you’re lighting angels up like it’s 4th of July. And I can’t convince him otherwise.

“Look, just, come back, please… Even if you don’t wanna see me. Let him know. You’re his friend, and he doesn’t deserve to be punished for my fuckups.

“Just, just lemme know. ‘Kay.

“I love you man, I fucking love you. See you soon, yeah.”

He heaves himself to his feet and picks his bottle of beer back up. Sam can drive tomorrow. He’s going to spend tonight trying to plug the hole in his chest with cheap booze.

It works, until he sobers up and he finds, like he does every day, that the hole has inched its way a little wider.


	17. So It Goes

**— Hannah, you have to have some news by now?**

**— I told Dean that I would inform you the moment I heard anything.**

**— It’s been over a month. You telling me your angels haven’t head a single thing?**

**— This isn’t easy. Castiel is warded against us in a way that few are.**

**— Can you at least tell me he’s still alive?**

**— I think so.**

**— What do you mean, you think so???**

**— Even in heaven, he would still be warded from us. His enchantments went deep. He scoured them onto his soul, or whatever his equivalent now is anyway.**

**— So you’re saying he could be dead.**

**— Yes.**

**— Don’t tell Dean that.**

**— You’d rather he have false hope?**

**— I’d rather he not throw himself into a fight he can’t handle because he wouldn’t mind winding up dead.**

**— As you wish, but if he asks me I will not lie.**

 

*

 

“Another bust.” Sam flops down on the bed and groans.

Uzziel is the sixth angel they’ve visited since parting from Druiel, and the sixth angel who has had nothing new to offer. She hasn’t seen any suspicious characters, she hasn’t seen Castiel, and no-one has recently tried to immolate her or harm her in any way.

Dean doesn’t say anything for the longest time, and then he roars, punches the drywall and slides down to the floor.

He stays there for a while, shoulders trembling with rage or tears or Sam doesn’t fucking know what.

Druiel texts them every day to tell them that there’s been no movement. Two fucking weeks, fourteen texts saying almost the same thing each time.

**— Still nothing. You?**

If he didn’t have exactly the same thing to say, Dean might call him. Just to talk to someone who isn’t Sam, just to hear his familiar, bored sounding tone. He doesn’t though, because he doesn’t want to drunkenly slur his lack of news down the phone while Sam watches on reproachfully.

 

*

 

He doesn’t wait for the beep before he starts talking.

“Charlieeeeeee. I wasn’t gonna call you, and I shouldn’t now, I……….just I need someone to talk to.” His thick tongue stumbles over the words, trips up and spits them out.

“Cas is gone. An’ Sam, he thinks he’s gone darkside’an lef’ us and he hasn’t. I know he hasn’t, and I need to talk t’you 'cuz you’ll believe me, I know y’will. Someone took him an’ we’re tryna find him and it’s not working, s’not working. I need y’to tell me that I’m gonna find him Charlieeeee. And I wasn’t gonna call you because you’re injured and I don’t wanna drag you int’it but I just need to talk to you, Charliee.”

He hears Sam’s key in the motel room door and he hangs up the phone, vaguely aware that he’s about to be caught doing something he shouldn’t.

 

*

 

Dean wakes the next morning to a raging hangover, pretty standard, and to a ringing phone. Less standard. He stumbles out of bed and to the motel kitchen, rips open a packet of rehydration salts, adds it to a glass of water and stirs. He chugs that down, and then grabs his phone from beside the bed.

“Hello.” He rasps.

“Dean Winchester you fucking asshole!”

“Charlie?”

“How long has Cas been missing? Why didn’t you tell me, you piece of shit!”

He flinches, considers lying to her, but it’s too late now.

“Nearly two months now.”

“DEAN!”

“You’re still recovering from your broken leg. We didn’t want to upset you when you couldn’t do anything to help.” Now he says it, it sounds so flimsy.

“I’m a fucking tech genius, you actual human piece of shit! I could have been scouring the web, hacking CCTV, doing fucking anything!”

“I—”

“I _what_ , Dean.”

“I didn’t want to think about it, okay. The more people I tell the more fucking real it is.”

“Oh, Dean.” Her tone softens.

“He’s been gone two months, Charlie. How many missing people get found after that long?”

“Some do.”

“Yeah?”

“They do, Dean. There’s still hope.”

“I don’t even know if he’s alive, Charlie.”

“Have you asked the angels?”

“Hannah says she doesn’t think he’s in heaven.”

“Doesn’t think?”

“No way to tell. He’s warded or some shit.”

“Okay. Well, what about Death? Have you asked him?”

Dean blinks blearily at the wall for a moment. He hasn’t. It never even fucking occurred to him. He’s a fucking moron. No wonder they haven’t found Cas yet. Jesus, the guy is fucked if it’s Dean he’s relying on for a rescue.

“I haven’t, I didn’t think—”

“I get it. You didn’t want to, in case, y’know. It was bad news.”

“Um, maybe. Yeah.”

“How you holding up, Dean?”

He shrugs, realises she can’t hear him and sighs.

“Still standing, y’know.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re coping. You sounded pretty cut up – and pretty drunk – when you called me.”

“Everyone has their coping mechanisms, Charlie.”

“Doesn’t make yours healthy.”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“Talk to me and Sam, for one.”

“No offence, but talking doesn’t drown out the screaming quite as well as a six pack of beer.”

“Dean—”

“Yeah, yeah. Bad coping, early grave. Not the first time I’ve had this talk.”

“I wasn’t gonna tell you off, dude. I’m tryna be sympathetic.”

Dean laughs.

“I’m so fucked up I can’t even tell when people are being nice to me anymore.”

“Hey, hey. I know you’re down, but that self-deprecating B-S isn’t going to help.”

“Alright mom.”

“Shut up, nerd.”

“Says the person with the slave Leia tattoo.”

“It was Comicon. Anything goes.”

“I guess.”

“You’ve never been, have you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, excellent. I’m taking you next year, and we’ll drag Cas along too. You two can get matching tattoos.”

It’s the first time someone has mentioned Cas’s name in a normal way since he vanished. Not asking where he was, or accusing him, or speculating about how he might be dead or wounded. Just talking about him normally, like he’ll be around next year and they’ll all be hanging out and laughing like all this bullshit never happened.

He didn’t realise he needed it. But he fucking does.

“I’m gonna get him so fucking drunk, make him get something real embarrassing.” Dean says, grinning.

“You know what you should do?”

“What?”

“You should get a tattoo of his face on your face, and vice versa.”

“Isn’t that the plot of Face-Off.”

“Not quite. Less tattoos, more surgical procedures.”

“Close enough. How’s the bum leg, anyway?”

“Nearly un-bummed.”

“Sweet. How long you got?”

“Cast comes off today. Gotta do some physio and junk before I can start hunting again but—”

“Hey, wait. You’re gonna be hunting again?”

“Maybe.” Her tone turns shifty.

“Dude, you got into this problem by hunting on your own. Please tell me you’ve got some kind of backup planned?”

“Maybe?”

Dean throws his hands up in the air. Every single member of his small and makeshift family is a huge fucking moron and they are conspiring to drive him to an early grave.

“If you don’t find someone to partner with I am never gonna talk to you again. Don’t think I won’t ice you out.”

“Hello, tech wizard. I have a very particular set of skills, and I will find you.”

“Shut up Liam Neeson.”

“You wish I was Liam Neeson.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You don’t make sense.”

Dean snorts. He looks over at Sam’s bed, sees that he’s starting to stir.

“I gotta go Charlie. Stuff to do, y’know.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“It was really good to talk to you, though. I mean it.”

“Good to talk to you too, man.”

“Sorry for, y’know.”

“Just tell me next time, love, ‘kay. I can help. I’m gonna call Sam and get him to walk me through everything that’s happened, because I don’t want you to have to relive all that if you don’t have to—”

“Thanks Charlie.”

“It’s cool, Dean. We’re gonna find him. No-one can hide from me, you know it.”

 

*

 

Death is sitting in a café in Rzeszów, Poland, drinking coffee from a chipped mug and sniffing appreciatively at the perfectly cooked Pączki in his hand, when he feels the tug of a summoning. He sighs, puts down his pastry, contemplates keeping hold of the mug so he can upend it on Dean Winchester’s head.

Even Death himself is subject to bouts of pettiness, sometimes.

“Do you know, Dean Winchester, how often it is that I get a break?” He asks as he materialises in a shabby motel room. “How few moments I can scratch away from my busy schedule to sit and appreciate good food?”

“Not many, I figured. That’s why, I, uh – you can’t do much in motel kitchens, but—”

“Stop waffling and get to the point, Dean.”

“I figured the only thing better than diner food, is homemade food. I’ve got queso and taquitos, tamales. I tried at pizza, but it went horribly wrong, so y’know, no Chicago deep dish.”

 “Bribery, Dean?” Death asks, amused.

He can’t deny he’s interested now. Too few humans try and bait him with food. It’s always offers of riches, threats, other dull things.

“Uh, more like a respectful offering.”

“My, my. We have learned some manners.”

“Yeah, well.” He holds out a plate.

Dean is sober, fully sober, for the first time in weeks. He can feel the panic clawing, gnawing at his insides already. There are two bottles of whiskey in his duffle – bought in a fit of terror, bought just in case it’s bad news – and he’s acutely aware of them. It’s like a physical thing, a visceral tug. He wants, more than anything, to take a draught for strength, to steal him against whatever Death says next.

But Dean knows that if he starts, he won’t be able to stop. And he needs to be sharp for this. Death might have treated them benevolently so far, doesn’t mean he’s going to continue to do so. Especially when the fate of the entire world isn’t on the line this time.

Death picks a tamale and examines it with the same scrutiny he would a human soul. Then he unwraps it, pops it carefully in his mouth. Which hopefully he doesn’t do with human souls.

He settles on the sofa, chews slowly, swallows and then nods approvingly at Dean.

“These are very nice, Dean.”

“I – uh. Thanks.” It’s not every day Death compliments your cooking. “So – uh—”

Death holds up a hand.

“Pleasure before business. Sit, sample your wares. You’re wasting away.”

“I’m okay.”

“Eat, Dean.” His tone brooks no argument. “You’re looking awfully sallow, and I’d hate to have to reap you before your time.”

Dean sits down next to Death, picks at a taquito in silence.

Objectively, Dean knows the food is good. To him, though, it just tastes like dust and grease.

Death finishes his tamale, licks his long slender fingers and glances over at Dean’s uneaten food.

“You can’t survive on alcohol and fear, Dean.”

“You sound like Sam.”

Death shrugs.

“People dying early messes up my schedules, requires a lot of work and creative timekeeping. You have already caused me enough trouble for one lifetime, thank you. _Eat._ ”

Death picks up a taquito of his own, pulls it apart and eats it delicately. Dean, not wanting to offend more than he already has, stuffs his into his mouth and forces himself to swallow.

Death is aware that he’s being cruel, tormenting Dean like this, forcing him to wait. Whatever is weighing on his mind is clearly weighing on it hard. His eyes are sunken and red, he looks thinner than when they last crossed paths, and there’s an intermittent tremor in his right hand.

But Death is old, and Death is allowed to be small and petty, sometimes.

“I would like to take some of these with me, if that’s alright with you?”

“’Course.”

“Excellent.” He decides he’s had enough of tormenting Dean for the moment. “So, I believe you had a reason for calling me here. Not another apocalypse, I hope.”

Now that the time has come to ask, Dean freezes. He’s not sure he’s ready to hear the answer to his question.

“Dean.” Death chides. “I’m very busy. You’re exceedingly lucky I’m here at all.”

“Cas.” He chokes out.

“Cas, what? Another Leviathan incident? I don’t keep close tracks on your troubled little family. It’s not good for my blood pressure.”

“Haveyoureapedhim?” Dean huffs the question out in one breath.

“Dean.” Death’s tone is impatient now.

“Have you reaped him? Is he, y’know…?”

He can’t say the word dead. He can’t.

Death looks surprised.

“What’s going on here, Dean?”

“He’s gone missing. I’ve asked Hannah, but she says she wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“So you summoned me to see if he had crossed over?”

“Yes.” He’s starting to suspect it was a mistake.

“You summoned me _just_ to see whether or not Castiel has crossed over?”

Okay, bad feeling. Real bad feeling.

Death laughs.

“You never cease to surprise me, Dean Winchester.”

Dean freezes. He doesn’t know how to react, what to do.

“You’ve amused me, so I’ll answer you: Castiel is alive.”

Dean folds over, head between his knees, pulls in deep, shuddering breaths. It’s good news, it’s good fucking news. So why does it feel like a wound to his chest?

Maybe because if Cas was dead, well, they’ve got people back from the other side of death before. That’s easy. Missing, he could still be anywhere.

Death pats reluctantly at Dean’s back, oddly soothing.

“I’m going to leave now.”

“Wait—” Dean sits up. “—do you know where he is?”

“No. All I know is that he is one of the rare specimens I have reserved for my own reaping – and I have yet to do so.”

“Thanks.” Dean sighs out.

Death turns away, turns back almost as an afterthought. As if he doesn’t have a carefully staged flair for the dramatic.

“I said I hadn’t reaped him yet, Dean. I didn’t say I wouldn’t be doing it soon.”

There it is, Dean’s punishment for being impudent, daring to waste Death’s time.

Death vanishes, and Dean doesn’t even count to three before he dives for the whiskey.


	18. There's Rust Around the Things I Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Chase & Status (Ft. White Lies) song, _[Embrace,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yS2Lkjbo9YI)_ and if you're going to follow that link, I recommend you plug in the best pair of headphones you can find and turn it up loud.

Sam knows he’s in for an ear bending, but he still answers the phone.

“Hey Charlie”

“Just so you know I'm still pissed at you both, but I'm gonna stow my crap.” She warns him.

“Thanks, and sorry. We should have told you, I know.”

“Yeah, you should have!”

“Sorry.” Sam grimaces.

“I spoke to Dean. He doesn't seem great.”

“He's circling the drain, Charlie. I think the only thing keeping him going is the momentum, and far too much alcohol.”

“Yeah I got that impression from his drunk dial.”

“I’ve tried getting him to stop, but—”

“But he’s not someone who copes well.”

 “He’s been getting the shit end of the stick since he was four years old, you think that’d make it easier somehow.”

”But that’s not how it works.”

“I know, it’s just. Fuck. We’re here and we’re searching, and…” He trails off.

“And what, Sam?”

Sam sighs.

“He thinks Cas is already dead.”

“What?”

“He won’t admit it, and maybe it’s not even a conscious thing, but Charlie, the last time he went to pieces like this was when Cas walked into a lake and didn’t come out.”

“He’s cut up that Cas has gone missing – doesn’t mean he thinks he’s _dead.”_

Sam shakes his head, realises that Charlie can’t see him.

“If he really, deep down, thought that Cas was alive he wouldn't be like this. He'd be single fucking minded and throwing himself after leads and trails. He wouldn't be drinking himself half to death every night and picking fights with me.”

“Fuck.”

“Pretty much.”

There’s awkward silence for a while – because what the fuck do you say in response to that? And then Charlie sighs.

“So, um, I told Dean I’d get you to give me the background on Cas’s disappearance, save him the trouble.”

“Good idea, I doubt you’d catch him sober enough.” The bitter snap is out of Sam’s mouth before he has a chance to stop it.

“Sam.” Charlie’s admonishment sound flat, tired.

“I know, I know. It’s fucking hard though, trying to hold him together.”

“He’ll be grateful for it, when all this is over.”

“If.”

“You really don’t think Cas is coming back?”

“Either I’m right, or Dean’s right. Either way, it looks like he’s gone.”

“Dean said something about you thinking Cas’d gone darkside?”

“All the evidence seems to suggest he skipped out on us, started torching angels.”

“Doesn’t sound like him.”

“That’s what Dean says. I’m not sure I agree. He’s done some sketchy things in the past.”

“Okay. Well, how about you tell me everything from the start, as impartial as possible, and I’ll tell you what I think, okay?”

“Why not.” Sam sighs, stands up from his park bench and starts pacing. Some stories are easier to tell on your feet.

 

*

 

Sam stares at his phone for a good ten minutes after he hangs up on Charlie, carries on pacing. He’d been hoping for reassurance that he was right, but all he’d got from her was hedging. She’d flat out admitted that the evidence all pointed in one direction, but she’d bookended that with, but it’s Cas. He deserves the benefit of the doubt.

He’s had the fucking benefit of the doubt. Sam has been the first to extend it to him, again and again. This is just like the fucking Crowley incident, where everyone but Dean could see what was going on, that they were being fucked over.

Eventually he returns to the motel, wrestles with the door for long enough to really piss him off and kicks it open in a huff.

He can’t see Dean at first, and then he spots him on the floor, empty whiskey bottle at his side.

“Fuck.”

He’s lying on his fucking back, like he wants to choke on his own vomit, and there’s the remains of some fancy spell work around, a lingering smell of burned herbs.

Sam can see his chest rising and falling, so he doesn’t let himself panic. He just picks Dean up, settles him on one of the motel beds, on his side. He unlaces his boots, pulls a blanket over him, and turns off the lights.

For Sam, sleep is a long time coming.

 

*

 

Dean’s phone alarm buzzes and yells in his pocket, doesn’t wake him. It wakes Sam though, and he rises, stretches and nudges Dean with a foot. He still doesn’t stir.

Sam tries all of the usual ways – poking and prodding, slapping, a wet flannel to the face. Nothing. Whatever spell Dean cast, combined with the whiskey, must have completely drained him.

On a usual day, Sam might let him sleep. But he knows if he doesn’t wake Dean up, he’ll be angry, and self-loathing, and more trouble than if he rouses him. Plus there’s the little matter of finding out what the ever loving fuck he was up to last night. Sam heaves Dean to the bathroom, dumps him in the shower, turns the tap all the way to glacial and aims the nozzle at his face.

Dean bursts back to awareness, spluttering and on edge. He lunges up at Sam with a furious, almost unhinged look on his face, and then he realises who it is, where they are, and he calms.

The adrenaline leaves as quickly as it came, and now his head is throbbing. No better or worse than he deserves.

“Sorry.” He croaks at Sam. “Why am I in the shower?”

Sam shrugs, unrepentant.

“Couldn’t wake you.”

“Oh.”

“You need to stop this.”

Dean stands up and shakes himself off, grabs a musty towel from the rail.

“Fuck off, Sam.”

“Drink yourself to an early grave all you want, I’ve never stopped you before, but this is getting in the way of the job. Or it would be if we were doing the job. You remember what that was, right? Saving people? Hunting things? ‘Cause we haven’t done it in months.”

“Cas is more important.”

“I know he is, I get that. But maybe you need to get used to the idea that he’s not coming back.”

Dean all but bears his teeth and snarls.

“We’ll find him.”

“Will we? ‘Cause Dean, I’m not trying to be unkind, but it’s been months and the trail has gone cold. There’s not a single fucking sign of him anywhere.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Look, I get that you need to hope, but—”

“He’s not dead.”

“You don’t know that, Dean.”

“Death told me he was still alive.”

It takes Sam a moment, and then he roars.

“You summoned, _DEATH?_ Are you _insane?”_

“Charlie gave me the idea – it was the only way I could be sure.”

“What the _FUCK_ , Dean?”

Dean ploughs on in the wake of Sam’s furious shouting.

“He said he hadn’t reaped him, but that he might soon.”

“Christ, Dean.”

“I needed to know, Sam. And now I do, and I can’t give up on him, not when he could be somewhere fucking hurt and scared and waiting for me to come get him.”

“Even if he is alive at the moment, Dean, he’s one guy. One guy who doesn’t want to be found,” he sees the expression on Dean’s face, quickly adds “or one guy who someone else doesn’t want to be found. Either way, you know how easy it is to make someone disappear – we do it to ourselves on a regular fucking basis.”

“I’m not giving up on him.”

“I’m not saying you should. I’m just saying maybe we should start easing back into the day job, y’know, saving people. With this, and the vacation. How long’s it been since we put down a demon?”

“We’ve been saving people for _years_. We can afford a break.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“It does for me.”

“De—”

“You wanna split? Fine. Do it. Go save some souls, if that’s what you think is right. But don’t think, for a moment, that I’m gonna give up on Cas while he’s still alive.”

Sam barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll let you go off on your own. And then, when I get the call in two weeks’ time to say you’ve choked on your own vomit because I wasn’t there to roll you over, how’s that gonna help any of us?”

“I don’t need to be fucking babysat, Sam.”

“That’s _exactly_ what you need, a fucking minder. Some idiot who loves you enough that they don’t want to watch you throw yourself off a cliff trying to follow Cas into the sea.”

Dean wants to say he’s fine, that he doesn’t need Sam’s help, but it’s too big a lie even for him.

“You can go.” He says instead. “I’ll partner up with someone else, Charlie or—”

“Don’t you dare.” Sam hisses. “Don’t you dare drag Charlie into this any more than you have already.”

“One of the angels, then.” Dean snaps.

Sam’s phone starts to ring. It’s so unexpected that they stop arguing, both turn to stare at it. That’s the special, white noise static ringtone that signals Hannah is trying to contact them.

Hannah almost never calls them first.

 

*

 

Hannah is not in vessel form, so she doesn’t have eyes, but if she did she would be rolling them. Dean pesters her for weeks, months, and then, when she wants to contact him, his phone goes straight to voicemail.

So she calls Sam instead.

He picks up relatively quickly.

“At last.”

“Hannah?”

He puts her on speaker.

“Obviously. Tell your brother to turn on his phone.”

“It is on.” Dean contests, taking it out.

No it’s not. It’s waterlogged.

“Ah crap.”

“I’ve heard news from Tahariel.”

Tension crackles in the room, lightning sharp.

“He thinks they’ve found something.”

“What?” Dean asks, in a sharp tone.

“They don’t know, it’s warded against angels.”

“So how—”

“They require your assistance to break the wards and get inside.”

“Where?”

“Maine. I’ll send you the exact co-ordinates.”

She hangs up, and Dean exchanges a glance with Sam. He doesn’t make a snappish remark, doesn’t give Sam the finger and tell him so there.

Instead he just asks, a question disguising a peace offering.

“So, Maine?”

“Okay.” Sam agrees, but he has a very bad feeling about this.

 

*

 

Tahariel and Lelahel meet them outside a building that Dean recognises faintly. He squints at it, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything that isn’t the gnawing fear in his gut.

Death said not yet, but soon.

What if this is soon, what if Cas is being held in here, and they burst in, and whoever is holding him kills him for it. What if, what if, what if. What if Sam hadn’t smashed the other bottle of whiskey on the ground and bundled him into the car, driven him all the way up here and locked the doors on him so he couldn’t escape and feed his habit. What if his hands weren’t trembling and shaking too hard to aim a gun.

Sam and Dean slip through the entrance together, to a thin corridor. The walls are painted red and there’s a base smell that Dean thinks he recognises.

The flint is sparking, it just won’t catch.

The corridor is clear of living presences, but thick with anti-angelic warding. They get out their spray cans, slice through the paint on the walls. Sam’s lines bisect neatly. Dean’s do the job well enough.

Dean goes back outside, tells the two angels to come on in. Lelahel looks at him with a sort of soft little curiosity. This is the fabled Dean Winchester, yet he seems a wreck of a man compared to the almost-myth that helped to tear down the great plan. If this is what happens to humans when they lose what they love, she’s glad she’s part of the host. Any temptation she might ever have had to stray is destroyed this night. It doesn’t seem worth it.

Tahariel steps in front of Sam and Dean.

“I’ll go first. There will be danger.”

“We can handle it.” Dean says.

“Let him.” Sam argues. “He’s an angel. It’s always good to go through the doors all guns blazing – means we can slip in less noticed, take out a few while they’re distracted.”

Dean grits his teeth, but agrees.

They follow Tahariel down corridors. He can feel something, something hideous and wrong, and he hones in on it. He strides to a final door, stops outside it and gathers himself, signals to those behind. He can feel a presence in there, pulsing, demonic.

He blasts the door open, charges through with a roar, ready to smite.

Straight into the trap.

The flamethrower ignites, triggered by the opening of the door. It spews out a thick column of holy fire straight into Tahariel’s chest. He screams, inhuman, the same shattered glass scream that greeted Dean when he pulled himself out of his grave.

Dean recognises the room, now, finally. He knows where they are.

It used to be a brothel. He remembers bringing Cas here, once, a lifetime ago.

The memory overwhelms. He sees Cas in the flames instead of Tahariel, yells and lunges forward, drops him to the floor and tries to make him roll, smother the flames.

He continues to burn.

The screaming stops.

Dean looks up. The flamethrower has guttered to a halt. Only enough oil in it for one good blast. All it needed, really.

The room is empty. Cas isn’t here, there are no demons, no monsters.

Just a trap, and a painted sigil on the wall, oozing bad feeling but doing no harm.

Dean walks over to the bed, expecting to see something, a clue or a hint. A great big teasing fuck you. There’s nothing significant – just a depression, like someone has slept here recently-ish. There are a few short, dark hairs on the pillow. It doesn’t really mean anything. Not anything conclusive, anyway.

It’s Sam who finds it. He slips behind the flamethrower, intending to dismantle it, take it down and make sure it’s fully disarmed, not about to fire again and cause any more casualties.

The trap mechanism is simple. Flamethrower on some sort of tripod stand, steady and balanced and clearly designed to stop it juddering and shaking, aim it perfectly. A thick, long wire is – was – attached to the door, held taught. Attached to that is a weight, which is in turn attached to a piece of fabric, looped around the trigger. When the door is opened, or blown up, the tension releases, the weight falls, and the fabric loop squeezes tight, pulling the trigger.

That’s not the interesting bit, unless you have a fascination with traps or fire.

The interesting bit is the particular piece of fabric looped around the trigger.

The thin end of a tie.

Dark blue.

Could be any old tie, though.

Sam undoes it carefully, examines it.

On the back, in neat, careful handwriting, Dean’s, written for a joke.

“My name is Cas. If lost, please return to Dean Winchester.”


	19. Blind Faith

Sam pockets the tie, goes over to where Lelahel is kneeling by Tahariel’s remains. He takes a moment to decide whether to intrude, does.

“Are you going to be alright?”

Sam expects to see grief, regret in her eyes when she looks up. Instead he sees rage.

“This was barbarous.”

“I’m sorry is there any—”

“Whoever set this trap knew that they were being chased by angels.”

“If it’s the same person then they’ve been leaving a trail of burned out angels from here to Kansas. It’s not a leap to assume angels would want to hunt them for that.”

“Perhaps, but they also warded this building against angels. Which means that they wanted humans here too.”

“Me and Dean specifically, or any?”

“There is a message here, and I don’t imagine it’s randomly targeted.”

“You think this is a dig at me and Dean?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is to discourage angels from working with humans.”

“You don’t think that, though.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I found Cas’s tie, in the trigger mechanism.”

“That’s your message then, I imagine.”

“I didn’t find any other clues, and I guess Dean didn’t either.”

“If this scene was a set up, it would have been carefully crafted so that only what the killer wanted was shared.”

“Yeah, doesn’t mean they weren’t clumsy.”

“Angels aren’t clumsy.”

“You think this was an angel?”

“I think an angel was involved.” She pauses, trying to work through what little information she has. “Tell me, how fares your own investigation – I understand you were visiting rogue angels?”

“Some rogue and some not so rogue. All harmless.”

“All appearing to be harmless.” Lelahel corrects.

“Yeah, well… Anyway, I assume Hannah has filled you in on what she wants you to know, but I’ve gotta be honest, we’ve been drawing a blank these last few weeks. We left Druiel to keep watch on the suspected next target while we carried on the trail, but we’ve had no news from him.”

“Who did you leave him with?”

“Her name was Muriel, eccentric, but welcomed us enough once she knew what we wanted.”

“Muriel? I remember her. She bore a passionate hatred for Castiel, and Hannah too. I’m surprised she didn’t slaughter you on principle.”

“Yeah, well, with the whole coming to save her life thing—”

“That wouldn’t used to have mattered to her.”

“You think she’s on the other side?”

“Perhaps not actively, But I doubt she’d be keen to help allies of either Castiel or Hannah. Unless she had a motive.”

“The human she said tried to kill her, she made it sound like Castiel. Paranoia, you think?”

“She was never paranoid, no matter how she acted.”

“So you think she was telling the truth?”

“Have either of you spoken to Druiel recently?” She brushes aside his question as if she hadn’t heard it.

“I haven’t – Dean talks to him every day, though.”

“Talks, or contacts?”

“I don’t know. I just get the report back. He’s not exactly chatty these days.” Sam shrugs. Amazing how one sentence can hold so much nuance.

“Dean?” Lelahel calls him over, from where he’s standing, staring vacantly at the bed.

He looks up sharply, as if he hadn’t realised he was there at all, strides over.

“Cas was here.” His tone is resolute.

“How can you tell?” Sam asks.

“Pillow.” Dean murmurs. “Smells like him.” He’s too tired, too sober, too wrung out, to be properly embarrassed.

“Dean—”

Sam’s tone is oddly soft.

“Can it with the pity parade.” He snaps back. “I know exactly how pathetic I am.” He discovers new depths of self-hatred on a whim. They come and they go, with no pattern or reason.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Sam asks, because he knows reassuring or arguing will just get him into a fight.

“Yep.” Dean doesn’t elaborate further.

“’Cause I found this.”

Sam holds up the tie.

“Is that—”

“Yeah.” Sam flips it, so that the writing is visible.

“Where did you find it?” Dean asks with unusual slowness, like he’s talking through alcohol and trying to seem sober.

“It was part of the mechanism that set the flamethrower off – wrapped around the trigger.”

“Someone’s messing with us.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Cas is sending us a very clear message. You said he was definitely here – and now his tie is literally the thing pulling the trigger. Awful coincidence.”

“It’s too obvious. Forget your fucking prejudice for two seconds and think how perfectly this is all set up – a door humans and angels needed to open together, a clue only I would understand, and then his fucking tie, wrapped around the trigger. They might as well have left a neon fucking sign – HI I’M FRAMING CAS!”

“I’m not the one with blind prejudice. This doesn’t look like a framing, Dean. This looks like Cas giving us a great, big two finger salute and saying surprise, guys, it was me all along—”

“You—”

Sam doesn’t let him talk, snaps.

“—If he was just going to the shop, Dean, why would he have brought this tie? He doesn’t wear it for investigations or hunts. I have never seen it around his neck – you bought it him for a goddamn joke. How would a “kidnapper” get hold of it?”

“You saying this entire thing was premeditated? That he skipped out with everything he needed, burned out the car and left us a fucking _treasure trail_?”

“That’s what it’s starting to look like.”

“Yeah? And you got an explanation as to why you think he suddenly got up one day and thought fuck it, I’m gonna go on a killing spree. Lemme guess, this was all a lie, him and us, all of it. He was pretending he loved me for a cover, or some sort of cheap thrill, or because he fucking fancied some ass and I was convenient?”

Dean’s tone is quiet and bitter. So caustic that Sam wants to touch his own face and check there aren’t holes starting to form.

“No, I don’t think any of it was a lie. He clearly cared about you, but—”

“But fucking what, then? What on earth do you think would drive him to _this?_ ”

“He’s had so many people in his head, fucking about with his wiring, wiping him clean, resetting him or removing his free will. Maybe it finally got too much, maybe he finally snapped.”

“You think he’s gone _mad_?”

“I think maybe the programming he fought off as an angel has finally got the better of him as a human. I mean, Naomi had him kill Samandriel – maybe this is an extension of her plan.”

“If Naomi’s programming had taken over I’d be dead. Or he would have tried, at least.”

“What?” Sam doesn’t know where that came from. Sure, when they met her, she didn’t seem to like Dean much, but that’s a bit far to extrapolate…

Dean laughs mirthlessly.

“You don’t know? He told me once, when he was drunk. Wouldn’t have told me sober – about the only thing he really learned from us was martyrdom. She reprogrammed him, all that time we didn’t see him, or we did and he was being weird, she had her spikes in his brain.”

“We know that.”

“Part of that programming was designed specifically to kill me.”

 

*

 

_“The first time, I wouldn’t do it. She wrapped her fingers around my wrist and drove the blade into your heart.”_

_“Cas—”_

_“I’m sorry, I can stop if this upsets you.”_

_“It upsets me, of fucking course it does, but if you need to tell me, tell me. I’ll listen. I can do that for you, promise.”_

_Cas nods solemnly, carries on._

_“The times after that, too innumerable to count, she had you attack me. I nearly died, the first clutch. She had to rescue me. After every failure, she returned to her implements, tweaked and fixed. It was difficult for her. Naomi worked best when there was already something to build on. Getting me to kill you, it wasn’t just about building up a resistance, a callous to the idea so that I wouldn’t mind doing it. I loved you, even back then, long before then, and the thought of killing you was so foreign, so abhorrent, that it wouldn’t occur without help. She had to work hard to plant the possibility in there first – start from the beginning – form it in my head and then program it in so that it stuck._

_“After a hundred or so, I started to defend myself, and then to fight back. She did her work well, but not quite well enough. One of them looked at me like you are now, quiet and sad, and I stopped, came to a halt and couldn’t do anything further. I became aware, of myself and of what I had done. I – I curled into a ball on the ground and begged for death.”_

_Dean doesn’t interrupt, knows from Cas’s wild look and his tone of voice that this needs to be let out, bled out in one go._

_It takes every ounce of Dean’s self-control not to grab his face in hands and quiet him. Silence him with a kiss and with touch and with all the reassurances he needs that it happened, they’re past it. It doesn’t matter anymore._

_“After that it got much easier. She must have found the right wire, or I’d realised it wasn’t real. I killed you, again and again and again and again._

_“Until it came to the real you. She replicated you in almost every way, but somehow when you told me you needed me, I knew the difference. A thousand half remembered fake kills, done without mercy or care, a thousand copies of you who cried or begged or died with honour or dared me to just fucking do it...” He trails off._

_“I had no idea, Cas.”_

_“I didn’t want you to.”_

_“Cas—”_

_“But I thought I should tell you now. I’ve heard secrets aren’t good for relationships.”_

_“Cas, you didn’t, I – I don’t even…”_

_“I just thought I should tell you, because now I have no secrets from you.”_

_“Yeah?” Dean tries for jovial, knows he’s falling far short. “Not even that you secretly like The Spice Girls or something?”_

_“No secrets, and that’s how it’s going to stay. I promise.”_

_Dean smiles, takes Cas’s face in his hands and strokes a thumb along his cheek._

_“No secrets. I like the sound of that.”_

*

 

“I didn’t—”

“Yeah, well. So anyway, we’d know if Naomi’s programming had kicked in. He’d have been here scrapping for my guts.”

“Okay, so it isn’t Naomi. Doesn’t mean it’s not someone else.”

“Why are you so determined to believe he did this?”

“Why are you so determined to believe he didn’t?”

“Because I trust him.”

“It’s not about trust – I’m not saying he did this on purpose, not like purgatory,” he has to get the little dig in there, “that your life together was a lie. I’m saying I think something has happened to him. But you won’t even entertain the possibility—”

“Charlie’s family,” Dean butts in, and Sam is so confused by the apparent non-sequitur that he lets himself be interrupted. “But she’s got her own life and her own problems. And you, you’ve always wanted to get out of the life eventually. And I don’t begrudge you that, I don’t, but when you do, Cas is all I’m gonna have left – and I don’t even mind that.

“But I’ve lost him before, too many times. I can’t – I _won’t_ do it again.”

Sam is kind of floored by the sudden about turn.

“I won’t leave you out to dry if I settle own, Dean.”

“I know that, but it won’t be the same. And I’m fine with that. I can let you go, because I’ve got Cas to let go for. He’s my endgame. He’s it for me, my happy fucking ending, and I’m gonna find him. I don’t have any other fucking choice.”

Lelahel’s patience, angelic and supposedly infinite, finally wears thin. “Can we please focus on the matter at hand?” She cuts in before an argument can start, or escalate. “Dean, I need to know if you’ve had contact with Druiel?”

“Text him every day.”

“No verbal communication?”

“Nah, didn’t see the point. No news either end.”

“Can you call him now?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dean fumbles his phone out of his pocket. He tries to navigate towards Druiel’s number, but the tremors in his hands catch him out at the last moment, flinging him wide. They shake in an uneven rhythm, dissonant even from each other.

Eventually, though, he manages it.

The phone rings to voicemail.

“Weird.” Dean says, he’s usually pretty good at answering.”

“Can you use angel radio?” Sam interrupts.

“He’s on the run, after a fashion, he’s been blocked from it for years.”

“What about the sigil thing with the phone?”

“I can try. I have no guarantee he’ll answer. He doesn’t know me.”

Sam shrugs.

“Worth a shot.”

“May I have a phone? It’s easier to focus through something, and he might recognise one of your phone numbers better than he recognises me.”

Dean chucks his over. Lelahel concentrates hard for a few minutes and then looks up, says, to absolutely no-one’s surprise.

“I couldn’t make a connection.”

“What does that mean?” Sam asks.

“It means one of two things. Either Druiel is dead, or unconscious.”

“Shit.” Dean says, eloquently. Sometimes you don’t have to be wordy or sophisticated to perfectly sum up a situation.


	20. Breadcrumbs

The drive to Muriel’s house is short but tense. Lelahel contacts Hannah over angel radio and frowns through the entire conversation. Dean drives – forced by Sam as yet another step on his _must keep Dean sober_ program – and Sam sits in the passenger seat and goes over his notes of the case so far.

Druiel’s car – or the stolen one they left with him anyway – is nowhere to be seen. Doesn’t mean anything. The car was probably quite obvious, maybe he decided to switch it up, hide in the bushes or something. Yeah, right.

They don’t knock on the door. Sam goes around the back, Dean and Lelahel take the front. Sam directs them there with a little frown, registering the intermittent tremor flowing along Dean’s hand and to his gun, and deciding that he isn’t to be allowed on his own.

The front door is open, and so is the back. They sweep the building with painstaking care, on the lookout for any more traps or tricks. There have been enough deaths for today.

Finding nothing, they end up in the bedroom, just like last time.

Unlike last time, the angel they’re searching for isn’t hiding under the bed. He’s lying on top of it. There’s an angel blade speared through his chest so viciously that it pins him to the mattress, done post-mortem, and the outline of wings drawn out in blood on the sheets – a mockery of the usual charcoal flare.

Lelahel bows her head, takes a moment of grief. Dean feels tears start to prick at his eyes. He liked Druiel, despite himself. And hey, he didn’t have to help them. He was a good guy, and that’s not something Dean usually says about angels.

His phone buzzes and he gets it out, assuming it’s Hannah asking for a report. It isn’t.

His phone says the text is from Cas.

**— Do you remember the bar in Houston, Texas?**

**— Cas?**

He sends the text, hits dial. The call goes straight to voicemail.

**— Hello, Dean.**

Dean feels like his heart is going to burst.

**— Is that really u Cas?**

**— Cas is, hmm, he’s gone.**

**— Whore u sonofafuckingbitch**

**— Come to the bar, maybe you’ll find out…**

Dean thrusts his phone into Sam’s hand by way of explanation, about turns and runs back to the Impala. Sam looks at the phone, catches a glimpse of the last line of text before it fades into nothing.

“Dean—” He yells, hears the Impala’s engine roar into life and throws himself out after him.

Lelahel looks at them in askance, but follows at a run. Dean is trundling slowly along the road, enough to let them know that he intends to let them into the car before he speeds off, but only if they hurry the fuck up. Sam opens the back door and throws himself inside, Lelahel follows. The instant the door is shut Dean pulls away, dangerously over the speed limit.

“Dean, what the fuck?”

“You read the messages.” He grits out.

“No I didn’t, they vanished. What bar?”

“When you were curing Crowley, me and Cas – we went there to get a cupid’s bow for the spell he was doing.”

“The one that cast the angels out of heaven?”

“We didn’t know that at the time.” Dean points out tersely, leaning into a turn and swearing as the tires squeal.

“Dean, you’re gonna wreck the fucking car.”

Dean shrugs.

“What did the whole message say?”

“It was from Cas’s number, said to go to this bar and that Cas was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah. But it used the exact same phrasing the Leviathan did, when they took Cas over.”

“You think the _Leviathan_ are back?”

“Nah. I think someone is messing with us. Again.”

Dean turns the radio on, an attempt to drown out any arguments before they start.

Lelahel looks at Sam sharply, and then takes the phone from him and frowns at it. Binary starts to scrawl over it, looping around and over.

“Sam.” She says.

“What’s up?”

“I think I can identify where the messages were sent from.”

Sam shushes her, and she narrows her eyes at him, affronted.

“What you talking about back there?” Dean asks, eyes darting, frantic.

“Nothing.” Sam says, before she can say anything. She looks at him, surprised, but doesn’t contradict him.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“I was just thinking – was it _exactly_ what the Leviathan said? You sure you’re remembering it right?” He doesn’t doubt Dean’s remembering it right. He’s only asking to throw him off.

“I wouldn’t fucking forget.” Dean spits, and then turns the radio up so he doesn’t have to talk to Sam again.

“Sam?” Lelahel asks under the cover of the music.

“Whoever is messaging Dean clearly wants him to go to that place; I think we should let him.”

“But not go there ourselves?”

“No, I think you should go with him. I’ll split off and head to whatever location you find – assuming it’s different.”

“You don’t want Dean to find whoever this was?”

“I don’t think he’s fit enough to fight, and I dunno what we’ll find if we go to the place Cas, or whoever, really is.”

“You’re worried of what you’ll find at the end of the real trail, and you want to spare him?”

Sam snorts..

“A little. Mostly, I’m worried that if it’s Cas we find laying this trail, Dean’s going to get in between us and ruin our only chance of reeling him in.”

“And what of the danger? If this is a false lead he’s been set on—”

“Someone texted him a location from Cas’s phone – which we know is broken – and dared him to go there to find out the answer to this mystery. False lead or trap. Probably both.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this deceit.”

“You’ve seen him. He can’t even hold a fucking weapon, Lelahel. Plus I think Cas, or whoever, is tracking us somehow. And my money is on Dean being the one tracked – if we send him the wrong way, I’ll have a better chance of taking this asshole by surprise.”

Lelahel sighs.

“Fine. How do you plan to separate from us?”

“I’m gonna tell him I need to piss, you’re gonna distract him and I’m gonna hotwire a car.”

“A sophisticated plan.”

“Don’t knock it if it works.”

Lelahel doesn’t reply, holds the phone and concentrates hard. A faint white glow envelops it, and then co-ordinates appear on the screen.

She doesn’t know that Sam is well versed in co-ordinate treasure hunts, waves a hand over the screen and causes the text to dissolve and reform into a map. A grey location marker denotes a spot a little way outside Pontiac, Illinois.

Sam remembers the city. It’s where Dean was buried and then brought back, where Jimmy Novak was taken, willingly, from his family.

It’s where, in a barn, covered in sigils and spell work, surrounded by traps and weapons, Dean and Cas met for the first time.

Or at least, for the first time that they both remember, anyway.

 

*

 

Dean knows they’re talking about something, and he knows they’re trying to hide it from him. He’s not fucking stupid. And anyway, he can see them in the rear-view mirror, duh, and Sam has his intense concentration frown of worry on.

Interestingly enough, the frown is directed at Dean’s phone, which he literally just said Cas’s texts are no longer visible on. So ether Sam’s found his stash of gay porn – he’s seen enough of Dean’s straight porn that he wouldn’t pull that face, although really the guy on guy stuff shouldn’t be a surprise, recently-kind-of-out-bisexual hello! Maybe Sam found the amateur shots he did with Cas – I mean, seeing your friend with his tongue in your brother’s ass and vice-versa, gotta you freak out a little bit.

Of course, Dean knows that isn’t it. He’s just trying to distract himself from what he’s really thinking . That the two little shits in the back have discovered something new, and decided not to tell him. Another text, or some angel voodoo shit. Which, well, screw you guys.

He counts, five, four, three, two, one….

“WE NEED TO STOP.” Sam yells over the music.

You live elbow to elbow with a guy like they have for as long as they have, you learn them pretty well.

Dean turns the music down.

“Piss in a bottle.”

“I don’t need to piss, Dean.”

“Not my problem.” He shrugs.

“It’s about to be the upholstery’s problem.”

“That ain’t gonna work. I care more about Cas than the integrity of my leather seats.”

“Look, there’s a fucking gas station right there and if you don’t pull over, I’m gonna barrel roll out.”

“Fine.” Dean spits, suddenly furious.

He wrenches the wheel around and peels into the parking lot with a scream of rubber. He gets out of the car, wrenches the side door open and pulls Sam out, shoves him in the direction of the bathrooms.

Sam stumbles, looks at him all shell-shocked and confused.

“Fucking go!” Dean yells.

He waits until Sam is out of sight, slips out the phone he pickpocketed and looks at the screen. It’s a few seconds before Lelahel realizes what’s happening, wipes it clean with a not quite subtle enough wave.

Dean isn’t a grunt, no matter what he himself might tell you. His brain sparks, makes the connection. Pontiac, Illinois. The last stop on the treasure hunt – because this will be a treasure hunt, he knows that. Whoever this is has been playing games with them from the start, dragging them around and leaving trails and clues.

He knows he won’t find anything concrete in the bar where he and Cas discussed returning to heaven, and watched a cupid help two typically masculine, (typically what Dean’s dad wanted him to be) men fall in love. He’d have found a clue, and then another one, ad infinitum until finally Illinois. Carefully orchestrated, so he’d arrive minutes too late.

Pontiac, Illinois, ending where it all began, wrapped up all neat, and clean, and tidy.

“Get out of the car.” He snarls at Lelahel.

“I can’t do that, Dean.”

“You’re gonna take this phone, carry on to the bar as if nothing fucking happened. I don’t give a shit how you get there. Just go. They’re tracking us somehow, I assume it’s this. Or you.”

“Dean—”

Dean shows Lelahel his forearm, the fresh angel banishing sigil carved there, in quick, brutal strokes.

“GO!”

Lelahel exits the Impala, grabs the thrown phone and runs to where Sam is, out of sight, hotwiring a car.

“Dean stole your phone, he knows.”

“Fuck!”

“He instructed me to continue as planned, draw suspicion.”

“You okay with doing that on your own?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Be on the lookout for traps, and stay safe.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Sam snorts, finishes hotwiring the car and drives off in pursuit of Dean.

 

*

 

The drive passes in a blur for Dean. Endless flashes of motorway grey, headlights and screeching car horns. He’s been driving on frenzied autopilot for just over an hour when the furious sound of police sirens bring him back to earth. They pass him in a flash, but not before the cop in the passenger seat shoots him a serious look that says, if we weren’t chasing something big, your ass would be getting hauled off the road.

That combined with a few very near misses makes him slow down, drive as safely as is possible to do when your extremities won’t stop shaking and your heart thrums and rattles and pounds at the speed of vibrating glass. Just as likely to shatter, too.

Sam’s words must have sunk in, or some of them at least. He’s no good to Cas dead. He can’t save him if he’s a smear on the tarmac.

He starts to regret this lack of haste somewhere outside Lexington, when he ends up sitting in a traffic jam a mile wide. The standstill pisses him off but he accepts it as part of the natural flow and process of the road. It’s the unnaturally tall, crafty, shaggy haired piece of crap that it allows to draw close to him that he resents.

Dean doesn’t run Sam off the road, but only because they’re basically stationary at that point and he wouldn’t be able to work up enough speed to do any fucking damage.


	21. Diacetylmorphine

The barn is enough in the middle of nowhere that there’s no disguising their arrival. Luckily, or unluckily, it seems that there’s no one there to greet them. 

Dean parks the Impala a little way off on purpose, in case whoever has gone out for a spin comes back, and Sam follows his lead.

The dirt road is a mess of tire tracks, and so is the gravel parking space spread out in front of the barn. Looks like it all comes from one vehicle, though. So one car, lots of coming and going. Huh. The most recent treads lead away and towards the town. Can’t be more than half an hour old.

Dean has to stop outside the barn; wait and just fucking learn how to breathe all over again. He has to fight it down, the sick, bone deep fear of what they’re going to find inside.

Cas is in there, he can feel it in his gut. It’s just the state that he’s in, what’s been done to him, that Dean is afraid of.

Sam puts a tentative hand on Dean’s shoulder and he accepts it. He’s pissed at Sam, still a whole fucking word of furious with him, but Sam is his brother, the only thing that’s kept him fucking going these past months, and his comforting touch gives Dean the strength he needs.

“I can go first, if you want.” Sam offers.

“No.” Dean rasps. “I’ve gotta, I gotta do this…”

He’s Dean Winchester. He can do anything, he can fucking do this. He squares his shoulders, gathers his courage and smothers his fear, and steps into the building.

It looks just enough the same to be jarringly different – a mosaic of Bobby and Dean’s best sigil work, warnings and barriers and protections and beseechings for help in a hundred different languages, both alive and dead.

The devil’s trap on the door has been repainted, but nothing else has been restored. It oozes neglect and abandonment, from the peeling walls to the floor carpeted in dirt and discarded needles. Junkies finding shelter, Dean assumes, until his gaze falls on the table. Fresh syringes, full of god alone knows what. Instruments of torture he thinks, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe all over again.

He carries on sweeping the barn, spots the stained old mattress in the corner. There’s a dirty, ragged bundle of something on it. Old, torn fabric,

A heap of rags with a metal chain, running from their center to the wall.

Sam tries to grab him, hold him back, but Dean’s fear lets him access new reserves of strength and he pulls away and dives forward. He slows at the pile, tenderly removes a ragged blanket to reveal a figure, so small, so fucking small and curled in on himself, shrouded in a tan trench coat that was too big for him on a good day, and now drowns his skeletal frame.

There’s an iron collar around his neck, carved with unnecessary Enochian and his eyes are closed. Dean lifts one open gently, sees it’s rolled into the back of his head.

Sam is shouting but Dean can’t hear it over the roaring of blood in his ears. He finds Cas’s hand, all skin and bone and nothing much else, presses his thumb against his wrist and doesn’t breathe until he feels a pulse

It’s there, faint but there.

Dean rests his forehead against Cas and he just breathes, pulls air into his lungs for the first time in months without it feeling like broken fucking glass. God. He looks bad, this looks bad, but it’s gonna be alright.

He presses a quick kiss to his temple. He smells like piss, vomit and stale, sour, sweat, but even under that, there’s a hint of the familiar ozone tang. Dean doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to pull away now that he’s found Cas, never wants to leave him alone again. He has to though, ‘cause they might have found Cas’s body, but his mind is clearly somewhere else.

Dean pulls back, walks over to the table and grabs a syringe. He checks to make sure it’s clean first, the last thing he wants is djinn rabies from sharing needles or whatever, and then stabs it into his arm.

Except he never gets that far, Sam smashes it out of his hand and pins him to the ground.

“Don’t you fucking dare give up on me now, Dean.”

“I’m not fucking giving up! I’m going to bring him home.”

He accompanies his incredulous outburst with a vicious right hook that leaves Sam reeling, but fails to actually make him let go. Sam frowns at him and Dean can see the fucking gears turning in his head.

“Dean, what do you think is in that syringe?”

“Djinn toxin of some kind. They’ve got him locked up in a dream and I need to break him out of it.”

Sam gets that other look on his face, the one Dean hates most of all – poor, delusional, misguided Dean.

“Dean, that’s not djinn toxin – or anything supernatural. It’s heroin. How do you know what roofies look like, but not heroin?” Sam sound incredulous.

“No one’s fucking spiked me with heroin before.” Dean snaps back, realising too late what he’s just implicitly revealed.

 “Dean—”

Sam gets that stupid fucking pitiful look on his face.

“How the fuck do you know what heroin looks like?” Dean counters with a growl.

“Criminal law.” Sam dismisses easily. “Now if I let you up are you gonna promise not to touch those needles?”

“Yeah, fine.” Dean snaps back, and Sam releases him.

“So what now?” Sam asks.

“We get him somewhere safe, call Hannah and get the fucking heroin,” Dean stumbles over the word, “angel purged from his system, and then we hunt down whatever son of a bitch did this to him.”

Dean goes back over to Cas, examines him carefully – ignores that it’s him, it’s him and he’s mostly starved and half fucking dead – and attempts to treat him like any other victim they’re trying to save. Professional detachment.

Yeah, right.

He examines the metal collar for weakness, doesn’t want to tug it too hard though, the skin underneath is already raw and blistered, crusted in dried blood and pus.

“What’ve they done to you, buddy?” He whispers.

Dean wants to touch Cas, tap him reassuringly on the shoulder or run his hands through his hair or something, but he’s half worried that if he does he’ll hurt him. He looks so fucking small and sunken. For all that Cas has always been slightly physically shorter than both Sam and Dean, he’s never once actually seemed small. Something of the multitudes contained within always showed on the outside.

Not right now, though.

Dean follows the chain to the wall. It’s only hastily secured, the peg hammered into the wood in slapdash fashion, but it’s more than enough for its purpose. He braces, holds the chain tight in his other hand so as to avoid jolting Cas, and then he yanks. It doesn’t come loose the first few times, and both the lock picks are in the back of the Impala.

He’s about to send Sam out to get one, because although Dean’s hands are shaking Sam is steady, Sam is a fucking rock, when they hear the crunch of tires on gravel.

Whoever did this, whoever starved and drugged and did fuck knows what else to Cas, is back. Rage gives Dean the strength he needs. He rips the chain out of the wall, hisses at Sam.

“Grab him. Take him to a motel and call Hannah. I’ll follow when I’ve dealt with this son of a bitch.”

“Dean, you’re in no shape to—”

Dean holds up the arm with the angel banishing sigil carved onto it, draws his gun and fixes his entire attention on the door.

Sam scrubs at his eyes, knows he has no chance of talking Dean down here. The best he can do is take Cas, run and just fucking hope for the best.

He picks Cas up as gently as possible. Oh god, he weighs almost nothing – Sam’s picked up _dogs_ with more difficulty.

He moves as rapidly as he can while still being smooth. Yeah they might be about to summon an angel to fix Cas up, but that doesn’t mean he wants to do more damage in the meantime. If Cas ended up dying on Sam’s watch, Jesus, Dean would fucking rip out his kneecaps – or worse. Once he’d finished dealing with whoever started this off in the first place, of course.

And wow, that’s a whole other heap of issues. Sam knows he shouldn’t feel guilty for jumping to suspicions about Cas – all the evidence pointed firmly in one direction – but it’s hard not to when the guy is lying, feather light and seemingly checked out, in your fucking arms, not even twitching.

Sam lays Cas gently across the backseat of his stolen car, checks his pulse and sends a quick text off to Hannah, curses himself for not giving Lelahel a fucking phone or anything. They don’t know whether she’s alive or dead even, but if she is still around she’s probably nearer than Hannah. Mind, Hannah must have some way of communicating with her lieutenant, so maybe she’ll send her their way after all. Whatever, as long as whoever comes, comes fast.

**— Found Cas badly hurt. Pontiac, Illinois. Hurry.**

**— On my way.**

Sam suppresses his instinct to send up a prayer of thanks at her swift reply. He doesn’t know who amongst the host is to be trusted, and the last thing Cas needs right now is to have his weakness broadcast to anyone listening. It’s why they’re using the stupid phones in the first place.

The engine roars to life with entirely too much vigor. Nothing he can do about that except hope that the barn is too far away for it to be heard.

The drive is tense; Sam has to go slow, careful, avoid making any sudden jolting movements, or even any movements that are likely to get him fucking stopped by the police. How do you explain why there’s a guy who looks like he’s recently escaped from a fucking POW camp slumped across your back seat?

Sam finds a sketchy looking motel, the sort of place where if he pays enough cash upfront no one is gonna be asking questions about what he’s bringing into his room or why, but he still does his best to sneak Cas in the back way. There’s no such thing as being too sure.

He lays Cas out carefully on the bed, stands there and spends a moment just taking in the state of him.

“What have you got yourself caught up in?” Sam wonders out loud.

He texts Hannah the name and the location of the motel. She doesn’t reply, but he assumes that’s because she’s back on earth now, driving or flying or he doesn’t know how wingless angels get around anymore – catapulting – her way over to them with all the speed she can gather.

He looks at Cas again, decides it’s wrong to just leave him like that. He grabs a lock pick from his bag, gets to work on the collar. The lock pops quite easily; getting the thing itself off, that’s more difficult. It’s stuck to Cas’s blistered flesh in places, and the only way to separate is just to pull.

“Sorry.” He apologizes, even though Cas is still out cold, can’t hear a word he’s saying.

Once the collar is discarded he moves to the clothes – peels off the dirty, reeking trench coat, the stained pants and ragged dress shirt. The trench coat isn’t Cas’s original – slightly different shape, slightly different colour. Close enough for the similarities to be deliberate though. Another taunt, he assumes. A great big middle finger to them all.

He leaves Cas’s boxers on – if Dean wants to sponge bath Cas’s junk that’s up to him, but Sam has to draw the line somewhere. That being said, it’s going to be a while before anyone gets here, and there’s nothing else Sam can usefully do, so he fills up a bucket with lukewarm, soapy water and dips his towel into it.

He cleans Cas slowly and carefully, wincing at each new clotted mess of blood and dirt he cleans away to reveal a half-healed wound. It’s a miracle Cas hasn’t died of gangrene, or infection.

Sam’s glad that he’s the one doing this. That Hannah, or god forbid, Dean, doesn’t have to see the state of Cas’s body under his clothes.

By the time they arrive he’ll be clean, redressed in Sam’s too big clothes to hide his wounds. Hannah might find out their extent when she heals him, but Dean never has to know. Dean never _will_ know. Sam will make sure of that. Dean’s going to hate himself enough already, for not getting here in time, for not getting here sooner. He doesn’t need more and larger sticks to beat himself with.

Cas’s ribs are a mess of mottled flesh under the dirt and blood – like someone’s been kicking him in the chest on a semi-regular basis. There are barely healed cuts, long, thick slices, along his arms, artfully placed to avoid any major arteries or veins.

There’s a raw indent on each arm, from a belt or a rope or something kept semi-permanently tied around his arm. And yeah, Sam can pretty easily guess why they’re there. He’s seen enough movies to understand that they come as a pair with the galaxy of track marks dotting Cas’s arms like freckles. That’s not the worst though, he doesn’t see the worst until he rolls Cas over onto his back, expecting to do a quick clean-up, just sweat and grime.

Instead he gets a blackish-red, raw mess of congealed blood. There’s so much it looks farcical, like someone slung a can of paint over him for a joke. It’d only take one quick inhale to realise the untruth of this though. That’s not the sharp chemical tang of paint, that’s the smell of a butcher’s shop on a summer day. Raw meat and blood. Sam soaks the towel again, dabs gently at the mess, trying to distinguish what’s scab and what can be cleaned away. As he cleans he starts to notice a pattern, deliberately shaped and formed. He guesses what it is long before it’s obvious, but he keeps going, tells himself he’s just jumping to conclusions, that it won’t be that.

That someone hasn’t carved wings into Cas’s back in vicious, angular cuts, deep enough to scar, deep enough that they’ll never go away entirely without help. A mockery of what he was and what he is now – or maybe designed to remind him every day of what he has lost, Sam doesn’t know the purpose. He just knows how much that must have hurt.

He finishes cleaning Cas up and then turns his attention back to his many wounds. None of them are life threatening, and none of them need to be treated before Hannah turns up, but still, for the same reason he cleaned him up, Sam wants to tend to Cas’s injuries, rinse them and bandage them up and make them look and feel as decent as possible. If it were him lying on that bed, he’d want someone to do the same, if he were in that state and Dean and Charlie were on their way, he’d want someone to take the time to make him look more like a human being, less like a fucking autopsy victim.

He doesn’t have a real first aid kit, but he does have the makings of a saline solution within reach.

He boils water, adds as much salt as he can get to dissolve in it, and retrieves a clean towel. While he’s waiting for the water to cool to usable temperature, Sam shaves off Cas’s ragged beard before turning attention to his hair.

It’s down to his ears and matted and full of blood and other things that Sam doesn’t want to think about. He cuts it down to Cas’s current favoured length – he’d been letting it grow a little since the days of Jimmy. At first by accident and ennui, and then because Sam showed him how to put product in it and muss it up to his satisfaction.

He finishes with Cas’s hair, checks the temperature of the salt water with his elbow. “It’s a good thing you’re unconscious and so hopped up on smack that you’re not gonna feel this.” he informs Cas, and then he gets to work.

 

*

 

Dean hears a car door slam shut and he pads up to the entrance to the barn. Fury sings through every nerve in his body, steadying his hand, strengthening his muscles and clouding his judgement.

He’s going to get this bastard alive – he’s already decided that he isn’t going to be the one to kill him. That’s gonna be Cas, even if he’s so fucking weak he needs Dean to hold his fucking arm and make the stabbing motion for him.

God, he looked so—

No. not now. He can’t think about that now.

The barn door swings open and a cheerful voice rings out.

“Castiel. How’s my least favourite abomination doing today, hmm?”

And then he stops, notices that Cas is gone.

“Shit.”

It’s all he has a chance to say before Dean’s bullets slice into the muscle of his legs and suddenly Dean is on him, woefully unprepared – without his demon killing knife, without an angel blade or holy oil. If this guy is human, he’s fine. If he’s anything else, well. All he can do is slow the fucker down. Dean knows this, in his rational brain. Unfortunately his rational brain isn’t the one in charge right now. All he knows is furious rage and a dead cold certainty that he can’t allow this son of a bitch to ever get near Cas again.

Blue sparks fizzle around the bullets and they’re expelled from the wounds with a soft thud. The element of surprize gives Dean about three seconds – and he wonders, as he greets an angel by stabbing it in the chest for the second time in this barn alone – why neither he nor Sam brought any anti- angelic weapons with them.

Well, maybe Sam has an angel blade, but he didn’t leave it. And they haven’t had holy oil for a long while. Except, why didn’t they try and get hold of some?

Maybe because Sam thought that it was Cas behind this, and, well. Cas is a human. All it takes to put him down is a knife or a gun. Or a heroin overdose.

So what’s Dean’s excuse then – a toxic cloud of fear, grief, and alcohol fumes? He’s better than that.

The angel throws him off with a snarl, clicks his fingers and Dean’s windpipe begins to constrict.

“You,” the angel says in a distasteful tone, “were supposed to be at a bar in Texas.”

He seems to be waiting for a response, but all Dean can do at present is clutch his neck and wheeze. The angel realises this, sighs.

“I wanted to wait until the end to kill you, but fine, if you must make things difficult.”

 He squeezes the air and the pressure around Dean’s throat tightens. Black spots dance in front of his vision and he knows he has seconds before he passes out.

Dean slams his hand over the carved banishing sigil, and then he’s gone.


	22. Variolation

Dean arrives before Hannah does. And it isn’t good news judging by the scowl on his face and the choked rasping tone of his voice.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“Fucking peachy.”

He brushes past Sam and sits at Cas’s bedside, relieved to see that he’s been changed out of those gross rags and into some of Sam’s oversized, but clean, clothes. Sam hovers awkwardly for a few minutes, and then he retreats to the bathroom to give Dean some privacy.

Dean waits until the door is shut, and then he sighs.

“He got away, Cas, and that’s on me. But don’t worry. I’m gonna hunt the fucker down, and I’ll be prepared next time – fucking vials of holy oil tucked up in every pocket. Might even go back to the brothel and repurpose that flamethrower he made.”

Cas doesn’t show any sign of having heard. That’s okay though. He doesn’t have to fucking listen, as long as he’s here. That’s all Dean fucking wants.

He doesn’t say anything else. He rests his elbows on his knees, closes his eyes and bows his head, takes Cas’s hand and pretends he can’t feel how different, how frail it is. 

 

*

 

Sam answers the door to Hannah’s impatient knock, and he’s so surprised to see the vessel she’s using, that instead of letting her in he frowns, asks, “I thought you gave Caroline back?”

“She agreed to lend me her body again.”

“Really?”

“I explained the situation. She liked Castiel very much.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Sam. Move.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

He ducks out of the way and lets her pass. She strides over to the bed where Castiel is laid out and frowns.

“What happened to him?”

“Some crazy fucking angel kidnapped him and pumped him full of junk for three months, that’s fucking what.” Dean snaps at his knees, apparently unable to summon the energy to address Hannah directly.

“Junk?”

“Heroin.” Sam fills in.

“Why would—”

Dean looks up, says sharply. “Can we maybe fucking heal him and then we’ll have this discussion when he’s okay?”

“Of course.”

Hannah touches her fingers to his head, closes her eyes. Sam and Dean watch, wait. There’s no visible difference, but none of his injuries are currently visible either, maybe this is it.

“Can you um, do anything about the starvation? Or will he have to heal that on his own?” Sam asks.

Hannah stares at him, like he’s just asked if she’d like to play a game of angel blade roulette.

“It’s not working.”

“What do you mean, it’s not working?” Dean’s tone is flat, emotionless.

“I mean I can’t heal him, not of his injuries or his addiction.”

“What?”

“His body is resisting me.”

“Resisting being healed?” Sam asks, before Dean can cut in again.

“Yes.”

“Can humans even do that?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“It’s that stolen grace, isn’t it?” Dean interrupts, and have his eyes always been that bloodshot, or is this something new?

“Yes.”

“He mentioned once, how he was surprised he got away so lightly. Guess he was wrong.”

“What is going on here?” Sam asks, at once worried for his friend but also annoyed that he appears to be the only one who doesn’t know what’s happening.

“Castiel’s exposure to two irradiated graces didn’t come without consequences. They changed the makeup of his vessel – his body – in ways we didn’t anticipate.”

“Meaning, what?”

“He’s immune to my grace – he’s fighting me. I can’t even see the extent of the damage, never mind fix it.”

“Immune, but how—”

Hannah rubs at her temple. It’s an oddly human gesture, one Sam wouldn’t have expected from her.

“You know the principles of vaccination, yes? A weaker version of something foreign and harmful is introduced to your body in order to teach it how to fight off the real thing.”

“So you’re saying—”

“That repeated traumatic exposure to weak and damaged angelic grace has made his body immune to my healing powers – yes.”

“ _Just_ your healing powers?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know, and I hope I never have to find out. Forgive me if I don’t try and smite him to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Not—”

“This is bad.” Hannah sounds worried. Which is…not good. Hannah never, ever sounds worried. “If word gets out, this could be the end of the host.”

Dean lunges forward, grabs her by the lapels and growls into her face.

“Bad for the angels? Cas is half dead, doped up to his fucking eyeballs, his arm is littered with track marks and he’s gonna have to go through rehab, and you’re worried about angelic fucking power play?”

Hannah shucks his grip, responds tersely.

“He is my friend, and he is my brother. Don’t you dare accuse me of not caring.”

“Yeah, well how about you—”

“For once in your tiny, insignificant life, Dean, use your brain.” She snaps. “What do you think will happen to Castiel if word of this gets out that he’s resistant to angelic powers? Every last demon or angel with a lust for power will be after him – trying to learn his secret. You think he was hunted before? If this is revealed, every monster in creation will be trying to find him. And once they do, they’ll rip him down to atoms trying to extract it.”

All the fight goes out of Dean at that, he just fucking deflates.

“So what do we do?” He sighs out in one whispered breath.

“We get him clean.” Sam says.

And of course, Sam has experience with this. He fucking knows what it’s like to be an addict, he knows what it’s like to have to recover from that. Dean forgets. It’s been so long and so much has happened since then, the apocalypse is a distant memory, and one he tries not to visit too often.

“We need to find out who did this.”

“It was an angel.” Dean says, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

Hannah winces.

“That complicates matters. I’ll have to put measures in place to ensure they can’t return to heaven.”

“You can do that?” Sam asks.

“Yes.” Hannah replies, doesn’t care to elaborate further, instead says. “And best pray that they don’t know about his immunity – or Castiel might as well be dead.”

She doesn’t soften a bit at the broken noise Dean makes at that. They found Cas, and he was alive. That was supposed to be it. Hannah patches him up and they get up and go and everything is back to normal.

He’s not supposed to be unconscious on the bed, fucking heroin and what the fuck else they don’t know coursing through his system, only sign of life a goddamn pulse.

It was supposed to be okay.

Dean punches the wall, tries to do it again, but Hannah grabs his fist, holds it fucking effortlessly. He struggles, tries to get out of her grasp, but she is resolute. She pulls him in close, hisses in his ear.

“He chose you over a return to the host. This is the consequence. You are not allowed to break down, or go off the rails. You have to stay here, and you have to look after him.”

And then she lets go, announces to the room in general.

“I can’t stay with you permanently – I have to keep running heaven and my prolonged absence will draw undue suspicion. I can’t even allow you Lelahel’s continued help, the fewer angels know about this, the better – but if you need any assistance in the hunt for this _monster,_ summon me.”

“Wait, we can _summon_ you?” Sam asks.

“All angels can be summoned.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this _before_? You could have been here, helped us take down the fucker instead of leaving Dean to do it?”

“Because you can’t do it without this,” she writes down something in curving Enochian script on a piece of paper, “and it is not something I could share over any form of wavelength communication. It would have drawn attention to our conversation, and thus to the fact that Castiel was missing.”

Dean’s mind jumps to suspicion.

“And you couldn’t have, I dunno, met up with us before and given it to us?”

Hannah sighs.

“I didn’t trust you enough to share it with you. I still don’t. However, the circumstances are different now, the stakes higher—”

 “Higher than Cas?” Dean snaps.

“Yes.” She replies, as calm as Dean is riled. “Cas is my friend and my brother, but he is not my only responsibility.”

And then she just fucking turns and walks out of the room.

 

*

 

“Dean? Dean!”

He snaps back to attention. Jesus he hadn’t even realised he’d fucking gone.

“Are you back with me?”

“Yeah, shit, sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s just uh, a lot to take in.” Dean lies.

Sam knows Dean’s fucking covering. He looks like he’s been shot. Sam can’t stop reflexively glancing over him, checking for bullet holes.

“We need to split up, one of us take Cas, the other go after this guy.”

“Uh, yeah.”

And there lies the fucking problem. Because Dean is the only one who knows what this angel looks like. And Dean’s also the worst person to send on this hunt. He’s too involved, he’s too fucked up. He’s too Dean. He feels things too deeply anyway, but when it comes to Cas.

But as bad as he might be on the hunt, as suicidally reckless and careless for his own health, he’d be worse left behind.

He can’t even look after himself right now, how the fuck is he going to be able to look after an emaciated, recovering junkie? You don’t put a probable heroin addict who might never wake up, and an alcoholic in all but name together, add the intensity of emotions shared between Dean and Cas, and expect things to go well.

Leaving Dean on his own with just Cas and his addiction – taking every backslide and lack of progress like a personal slight. That’s not going to help anyone.

“I know about this sort of thing – I’ve gone through it myself.” Sam begins.

“You want to stay with him?”

There’s no emotion in Dean’s voice. Sam can’t tell what he’s thinking – and that’s not usual. Dean’s a fucking open book when it comes to Cas.

“I think you need to go and get this guy – keep Cas safe.”

“Yeah.”

“You know what he looks like.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam’s really getting fucking worried now.

“I dunno. I just…”

“You wanna be there when he wakes up?”

“I let him out of my sight and this fuckin’ happened, Sam. I dunno if I can leave him again.”

“You’re leaving him with me.”

“ _You_ thought he’d turned fucking evil.”

“I made a mistake, Dean. I’m sorry, but you can’t afford to hold that against me – you’ve got to do what’s best for Cas.”

“Don’t tell me what I’ve got to do.”

“I’m sorry—”

Dean sighs, scrunches up his eyes.

“I just—”

 “I’ll call you every day, even if the only news is that he’s drooled on his fucking pillow. You’ll be the first to know.”

Dean tries to muster up a tired smile, doesn’t succeed.

“You’re right, but I can’t do this on my own. I know you didn’t want her involved, but I need to call Charlie.”

“No, you were right. She’d want to be involved – and you need backup.”

Dean doesn’t take that as an insult this time. He fucking knows it

 

*

 

“S’up, Charlie speaking.”

“Charlie…”

“Dean? Shit, do you have news – Cas, is he okay?”

“We got him back, Charlie, but he’s not in a good way.”

“Is he gonna get better?”

“Uh, I hope so.”

“What happened – are _you_ okay?”

“I can’t explain it over the phone—”

“Yeah, I get that, trust me.”

There’s a long pause, and then

“How’s your leg, Charlie.”

“Fully healed.”

“Okay” He says. “Look, I wouldn’t ask, but Charlie, I need your help.”

 

*

 

Dean carries Cas to Sam’s car. He still hasn’t stirred, but his pulse is steady, even if his breathing is quiet. He feels so light, and Dean wonders if this is what he felt like to Cas, when he was an angel, all those times he supported or carried him. So light and insubstantial, like he’d just fucking float away given the opportunity.

A nebulous cloud of dust, held together by fucking chance, liable to break apart under a stiff wind.

He lays Cas out on the backseat, kneels there beside him, strokes a hand through his hair and presses their foreheads together. He stays there for a long time, trying to make himself stand, force out the words that are setting in his throat like concrete.

There’s too much he wants to say. Too many questions, too many apologies for not getting here sooner, for letting him fucking go at all.

Eventually he manages something. It’s not profound, but it’ll do.

“I’ll be back soon. I promise, Cas. I fucking promise.”

His voice doesn’t break.

His _voice_ doesn’t break.

Dean stands up, shuts the car door and walks away.


	23. A Joke, A Fix, A Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Elbow song, _[The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fX0B9ZpdZEA)_  
>   
>  Part title taken from the Rise Against song, _[Savior](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8X3ACToii0)_

**Part 3: I Just Want to Save You While There's Still Something Left to Save**

 

Dean gives himself an hour – the time it takes between Sam leaving and Charlie arriving – to sit on the bed and fight down the gnawing, corroding _something_ in his chest. Anger and fear and guilt that he can’t just be fucking grateful that Cas is alive, that he has to have all this extra bullshit with it too.

God, but he wants a drink.

Just a nip, something to settle him. Something to cushion his jagged nerves, raw and exposed to the air.

He’s halfway to his feet, keys in hand, on the way to a liquor store or a bar or a fucking bridge to throw himself off, when there’s a sharp rap on the door.

His first thought is police, his second thought is maybe it’s someone with a camera and a mic and when he opens the door they’re gonna point at him and laugh and yell GOTCHA. Okay, maybe that’s not exactly something he expects, maybe that’s more just wishful thinking.

He wouldn’t even shoot the TV host for the fucking mental trauma, probably, if it just meant that none of this bullshit had really happened.

“Dean?”

Charlie, or a shifter hijacking her vocal chords.

He decides there’s no such thing as too paranoid anymore, grabs a silver fork from his bag – after the fucking LaCroix debacle he’s been carrying one wherever he goes – cracks the door open and chucks it out.

“Um. Thanks?”

“Just pick it up, hold it where I can see it.”

Charlie frowns at Dean, but does what he asks. There’s no hiss or crackle; she doesn’t even flinch. Good enough for him.

He unchains the door, opens it up and lets her in.

She pulls him into a hug, tight enough to squeeze his bones, doesn’t let go long after it’s gone past the bounds of acceptable hug length.

He lets it go on until she breaks it off, puts her hands on his shoulders and examines him from arm’s length.

“You look like crap, Dean.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you slept at all in the last three months?”

“Yeah.”

“Try telling that to the bags under your eyes.”

“I didn’t say I slept well.”

“Jeez, Dean.”

“Don’t, I don’t need a pity party right now. I need to find this fucking son of a bitch and get him back to the bunker.”

“You don’t want to kill him?” Charlie sounds surprised.

She’s gotta be honest, this isn’t quite what she was expecting. She was expecting y’know, wrath of god Dean, trail of blood and fire, epic rage and fucking shit up. She wasn’t expecting a pale, racoon-eyed wreck, who only hides the tremor in his right hand until he gets distracted by something else.

“That’s for Cas to do.”

Charlie wants to ask how Cas is. Dean wasn’t particularly forthcoming on the phone, but she thinks that in itself is probably her answer.

“So. Do we have a lead, somewhere to start?”

“There’s barn, not too far from here. S’where they were keeping him.”

“Are you okay to go back?”

“Yeah. Fucking peachy.”

He grabs his bag, marches out the room almost too quick for Charlie to catch up. He’s halfway to the Impala before he realises that Charlie will have driven here too, probably has her own set of wheels.

“Uh, which car is—”

“I um, maybe stole it.”

Dean isn’t sure whether to be impressed or appalled that they’ve finally dragged her down to their level.

“Impala it is, then.”

 

*

 

There’s nothing of any interest in the barn, but the same can’t be said for the car. It’s a fucking treasure trove. Driver’s licence in the glovebox belongs to one Robert Lacey, the vessel, because Dean recognises his face from the picture. There’s a mobile phone with a cracked screen and a handful of messages. Dean flicks through them, sees a load from Muriel.

He finds out that the angel’s name begins with C, as that’s how she addresses him in a few of her texts. He also gathers that she wasn’t actually working with him, or at least not from the start. From the sound of it, he went to kill her – another false murder to lay at Cas’s feet – and she talked him around, promised to help out on the strength of her hatred for both Cas and Hannah.

There are no other messages, and Muriel’s is the only number programmed into the phone. Dean searches through some of the obvious places, drafts and notepad apps, photos and recent calls. Draws a blank and goes down some less usual routes – looks for eBooks that might contain hidden code, or names of song tracks that might do the same.

Fucking nothing.

Charlie fares better.

She fishes out a shiny new laptop from under the front seat, can’t hide a gleeful little grin as she flicks the lid open. Not even a fucking password.

Dean leaves her tapping away at the keyboard like a nerd in a ‘90s hacker movie, carries on searching. There’s no wallet, which suggests the angel still has it with him. So, put a trace on Mr Lacey’s card and shit, see what techno-voodoo Charlie can come up with – not literally, hopefully. Voodoo is just about controllable if you’re born into it, raised with it in your bones. Dabblers, they don’t tend to fare well. Ain’t that always the way.

Angels don’t need to eat or anything like that, but when an angel gets banished they end up somewhere on earth. So plane tickets, or gas, or a fucking gun. Or a cash withdrawal to go off grid.

He’s gotta spend something at some point, and when he does, well, it’ll be a start.

From what they know about this angel so far, he likes to play games and he likes to be in control. That means he probably won’t come after them without setting up something convoluted and difficult as backup. They can’t bank on that, though, so they’ve gotta be prepared.

Dean runs through a mental list of angel weaknesses. Holy fire – but a burning fucking ring isn’t exactly portable, so that’s of limited use. Plus they don’t actually have any holy oil – and it’s not like they know anyone who can teleport to fucking Jerusalem and get it for them these days. Well, they do, but Crowley would demand to know why – and he is the last person they can tell about Cas’s weaknesses.

Enochian sigils can hide humans from angels – might be worth getting some tattooed on Charlie before they go any further, actually – and if they try and lure “C” to them, they can be used to ward the room and weaken him, give a bit of an advantage at least.

There are lots of ways to trap angels in one place – sigils and the like – there don’t seem to be many for supressing their powers, tossing them in the trunk of your car and driving them halfway across the country.

Or, actually, wait. There’s that one they used on Gadreel. Devil’s trap equivalent – and the things they’ve done with devil’s traps. Bullets and handcuffs and all sorts. Crowley’s stint in the trunk.

Okay. So that’s where Dean’s going to start. He wasn’t prepared last time, and that’s on him, but he’s going to make sure that doesn’t happen this time. He can’t let Cas down, not again.

 

*

 

Sam drives back like he’s got the devil in his rear-view. The backseat of a car is no place to start going through withdrawal symptoms, and it’s a nine hour trip back to the bunker from where they are.

Cas starts to stir around hour four, and Sam pulls the car over, rummages around in the bottom of his bag for the sleeping pills he knows are there. The bottle is still unopened. They weren’t for him – they were insurance, something he purchased in a fit of desperation but never got quite deep enough to use on Dean, although fuck, he came close. Crumble one up into his first beer and carry him to bed instead of watching him drink himself into a fucking wreck over and over again.

Yeah, he was tempted.

Cas groans something, semi-conscious, and Sam slips two pills into his mouth, follows them with a bit of water. Cas gulps reflexively, coughs. And yeah, Sam fucking knows trying to make someone swallow while they’re unconscious is dangerous, but it’s better than having Cas wake up now.

He’s been gone for months. They have no idea what his headspace is. He needs to wake up somewhere safe, somewhere restrained. Not in the backseat of an unfamiliar car, thinking he’s still fucking captive. He could do fucking anything.

It’ll take about 15 minutes for the pills to kick in, maybe less, depending on what’s in his stomach. Not much, judging by the look of him.

If Sam had his way he’d hook Cas up to a fucking sedative drip for the next two weeks, keep him unconscious while the junk works its way out of his system.

Life doesn’t work like that, though, and he doesn’t have enough medical knowledge to feel safe mixing anything much with the who-fucking-knows-what in Cas’s system.

Cas fights his way up to near consciousness, but never quite reaches lucidity. He twitches and groans, eyes fluttering, but never quite managing to open. Sam gives it a half hour, only starts the car up again when he’s sure the pills have kicked in and Cas isn’t going to wake up, hurting and disorientated, probably in attack mode – if he even has the fucking strength left to manage that.

 

*

 

It’s even worse than usual this time. Like he skipped the warning signs and went straight for the writhing, twitching need. He opens his mouth to breathe – his nose is some unholy mix between plugged up and leaking profusely and there’s no air getting through it. It’s a mistake, it always is. The resulting wave of nausea makes itself violently known with a dry heave and a spray of stomach bile and spittle.

It burns as it comes up, but he’s used to that. Used to throwing up empty. Sometimes he gets a bit of food – dry bread, crackers, goopy muck on extra special occasions. But he’s not interested in it, and anyway, it usually comes back up pretty quickly after it’s gone down. What’s the point?

He heaves again, ribs and throat making their protests at this kind of treatment very aggressively known. You think they’d be used to it by now, but if anything they’re getting more aggravated as time goes by. You can’t sustain muscle tone on a diet of intravenous drugs and half-digested carbs. Who’d have known?

Thick, slippery bile hangs from his lips and dribbles down his front – onto his shirt. The fabric of which, he now realises, feels different somehow. He risks cracking open one eye for a quick glance. He’s surprised, in as far as he has the strength to feel other emotions any more. He’s long past the stage where this kind of thing embarrassed him, but the t-shirt is new. He’s been kept in the same, stained, crumpled dress shirt since he got here – trench coat and sensible shoes too. His old uniform.

Now though, now he’s in an oversized shirt and far too big sweatpants.

The plot thickens. Undoubtedly some new torture is imminent.

The clothes don’t stay clean for long, anyway. He feels the familiar jagged pull in his gut. Knows without doubt what’s about to follow.

But, it’s fine. He’s used to the indignity of his own body’s relentless and consistent betrayal. You shit yourself on an almost daily basis for a month and it stops being a problem. It just starts being a fact of life.

He wishes it worked like that with _it_.

The cramps are starting up now, and the restless leg twitches that come with them. He wants to run for a thousand miles, and he also wants to curl up into a ball and scream until he passes out. 

But, of course, all that pales against the other thing. Bone deep, blood deep, carved into him and suffusing every atom of his being, every nerve and every conscious thought.

He’s felt need before – been starving, been thirsty, been so tired and so cold that the only thing there was room for in his inadequate little human brain was the base need to find shelter and warmth. They are nothing before this. This isn’t want, this isn’t need. This is a compulsion, visceral and impossible not to satisfy.

Unless you’re chained to a wall in a place you used to love, a place that now you won’t be able to think of without feeling that need, that pull. Which, of course, is probably entirely deliberate. Angels are warriors of god, and torture is but a weapon.

 Hell might have refined it, but heaven invented it.

C can’t be in the room, he’d have made his presence known by now. Pretending to sleep doesn’t work so well when you’ve been evacuating at both ends, not that Cas was good at that anyway. Somehow he always knew, and Cas learned early on that trying to feign sleep to escape him wasn’t going to work.

It made C worse, because it was showing weakness – you’re hurting me, and I want to avoid it.

C – and Cas only know that much because of a furious overheard phone conversation, “don’t call me by my real name, you imbecile, call me C if you must” – is an angel, a warrior, and, just like they all were, a deceiver. He knows how to find the weakness in a line of demons and smash through it. It’s not much different brought down to a personal scale.

Cas supposes he ought to open his eyes, see what’s going on, where C is. He doesn’t really want to, though, not until he’s forced. The light, like fucking everything else, hurts him. It’s easier to just stay curled up here, knees jaggedly twitching against his forehead, drumming up a headache and for fuck’s sake...

Nothing he does helps. Of course it doesn’t. Screw it. He’s going to sit up, open his eyes, maybe he’ll even try and scream and rail against his fate.

He does the first two, is too distracted by what he sees to finish the list.

He’s been moved – undoubtedly while he was unconscious. The room looks familiar, the metal framed bed too, even more so the frowning, altogether too tall figure folded into a chair and dozing lightly.

Sam. So that’s the next trick. Hallucinations, conjurings.

He knows he’s not really home, because there’s no sign of Dean, and because there’s still a shackle around his wrist – the other wrist than usual though, so that’s a suspiciously pleasant change. Metal on whole flesh, not raw, weeping blisters. The chain is much longer as well, maybe twelve feet of give before it wraps around the bed. He could stand up, walk all the way to the door. In theory.

“Just get on with it.” He grates out, at “Sam”.

“Sam” jerks awake, those hunter instincts. Cas’ll have to give it to C, he’s really captured him well. He looks perfect, seems to act just like Sam too.

Cas is still in the early stages, has enough of himself left to worry, to wonder how C managed to replicate Sam so perfectly. He hopes that this pattern is formed from the heavenly blueprint they had of Lucifer’s vessel, not from close contact with the man himself.

Because if he’s got Sam, he probably has Dean. And if he has Dean, well, Cas has no hope left. Not that he had much before this anyway. Maybe in the first month, maybe the second. When it got to the third, he didn’t have much space for hope anymore. 

If he ever sees Sam again, for real, it’ll be on a hunter’s pyre. Sam would be killed mercifully, he did his part. Some of it, at least. He said yes to Lucifer, he let the devil in. Okay, then he flung him back into his cage, but that’s better than the alternative, considering the circumstances.

Dean, well. Dean derailed the whole thing, in his way. He refused Michael, he defied the heavenly plan, gave Sam the tools he required to stop it all.

Dean, Cas is sure he would see alive, with flayed skin and a skeleton grin. Dean would be forced to atone for his sins, in much the same way that Cas is doing now. Probably worse. Cas is only a fallen angel who got too big for himself; Dean is the crawling little grub who stuck a middle finger up to Michael and told him to shit a fucking brick.

“Cas?” The intonation is perfect, so Sam. An exquisite recreation.

Cas voices this thought in a raspy croak. His voice is rusty from disuse – he doesn’t have much call for speaking these days. Screams, pleas for help, for a hit, for anything that’ll stop this fucking pain.

“You’re good at illusions, I’ll grant you that.”

“Cas?” “Sam” sounds bemused. He’s doing that little quizzical head tilt too. Perfectly crafted. Almost a work of art.

Although why Sam was chosen instead of Dean, Cas doesn’t know. You’d have thought Dean, for maximum impact. Maybe that’s not the angle C’s going for.

He always has a reason.

“Sam” sniffs at the air sharply, nose curls in some vague form of disgust.

“What’s that— oh, Cas.”

The condescending pity he could do without, but it’s not torture. Yet.

“Here, lemme clean you up.”

“Sam” disappears, comes back with a washcloth and a basin of water. He stands near Cas, just out of arms reach, like he’s waiting for a fucking invitation or something.

“What?” Cas snaps.

This is his hallucination and he reserves the right to be pissy if he wants to.

“Can I come closer?”

“You can do whatever you want, you’re not real.”

“I’m not— Cas. It’s me, it’s Sam.”

“Yeah, of course it is.” He grins, a little too wide. His lips crack and he can taste blood. “Sam just waltzed here out of the blue and rescued me, ha-ha-ha, hilarious. I suppose Dean is hiding in the bathroom preparing my next hit. Tell him to hurry up, it fucking _HURTS_.”

“Cas, please—”

“You can come closer, go on, fucking do it. Do whatever you want.” He rattles the chain of his shackle. “Not like I can stop you.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure what state you’d wake up in, I had to be restrain you, for your own safety. I had to be sure you were okay.”

“Fucking peachy, Sam. C’mon, wipe me down and shoot me up.”

“Cas, I’m not gonna—”

“Of course. It’s only been a few hours, I’ve got a long time to go first. How stupid of me.”

“Cas—”

“Just fucking DO IT. Whatever you want, do it. Leave me alone.”

“Sam” grits his teeth, steps forward. The instant he gets within range Cas lunges at him with a laugh.

“Think I’m stupid. I don’t know what you’ve got in there, acid or poison or fucking something.”

“Cas, look. What can I say to convince—”

Cas doesn’t reply with words, just manic fucking laughter.

 “There must be something I can tell you, that only I’d know?”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.” Cas shakes his head side to side, remembers that he’s in an incredible amount of pain and stops.

“Ow.”

“Are you in pain?”

Cas laughs again.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“I can give you a Valium, would you take a Valium?”

“Anything you have to give me, I’ll take it.”

“Sam” walks out of the room, how mundane. He’s a figment of Cas’s imagination, the least he could do is teleport or vanish in a puff of smoke or something.

He comes back with a little handful of pills that Cas’s common sense tells him to throw on the floor, but his desperate junkie cravings tell him to swallow down with a grin.

“What did I just take?”

“Valium, Imodium, vitamins.”

“Vitamins?” Cas snorts. He has mixed feelings about his little chemical cocktail. Valium sounds like a good thing, Imodium sounds entirely too medical for his liking, and fucking vitamins.

“You look like you need something healthy in you, and I think if I brought you food you’d throw it at me.”

Cas smirks. That’s exactly what he’d do, if he had the strength to throw anything.

“Cas, look, there’s got to be something I can do. What about Dean?”

“What about him?”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“No.”

Cas’s mood suddenly slips from giddy to sullen.

“Get out.”

“Cas—”

“GET OUT!” He screams, throws himself forwards like he’s trying to claw at Sam’s face.

Sam does, because Cas is clearly seven shades of fucked up, and even more unstable, and the last thing he wants to do is encourage him to hurt himself.

He’s so glad, hideously, painfully glad, that Dean isn’t here.


	24. Charlie Bradbury, Peacekeeper Extraordinaire

Back in the motel room, Dean sets about carving angel traps into everything he can get his hands on. He works around the shakes, unwilling to try and subdue these ones with alcohol. No good having steady hands if you’re sloppy drunk enough that it wouldn’t matter.

The first three bullets get discarded, thrown to the side with a frustrated noise.

Charlie looks up from her laptop.

“Want me to do that?”

“No. You keep on whatever you’re doing, I’ve got this.”

He can see the sceptical look trying very hard to form on her face, but she doesn’t say anything, just turns back to tapping away at her keyboard. He’s glad for that.

He keeps trying, small, careful movements of the knife that take into account the tremor in his hands. Eventually he has a small pile of bullets, three sets of handcuffs and – because he decided fuck it, why not – a sheet, all carved or painted with an angelic trap on them.

Time to see if this works, then.

He lays the sheet out on the floor, puts another on top of it and draws out the sigil required for an angelic summoning. It’s a bitch of a summoning, all carefully drawn lines and weird little rocks, but he gets it all together quickly enough, drops a lit match into a bowl of assorted herbs and says Hannah’s name. Her proper one, the one she didn’t trust them with, even when Cas was fucking missing.

Not that Dean still is, and will be to the day he dies, bitter about that.

Hannah appears almost instantly – seems shocked to see Dean there.

“Dean – why are you—”

“Do me a favour, walk over to Charlie.”

“I—”

“Do it.”

She rolls her eyes, takes a step, and then realises that she is stuck.

“What have you done, Dean?”

“Experiment. Promise not to smite me and I’ll let you out.”

“Where is Castiel?”

“Promise.”

“I promise I will not harm you.”

Dean uses his knife to slash through the two sheets, breaking the angel trap beneath.

“So—” He begins, but Hannah cuts him off.

“Where is Castiel?”

“With Sam, at the bunker.”

“Why aren’t you with him?”

“Because we need to track this guy down.”

“Sam is perfectly capable of doing that. I thought I made it clear that you should be looking after Castiel.”

“I’m looking after him by getting the son of a bitch that did this to him.”

Hannah gives in to her rage, lets it flood out in a torrent, sweeping her admonishments with it.

“He _fell_ for you, gave up everything he had, _for you._ You are the one that he loves, above all his brothers and sisters, all of his brethren. Why. Are. You. Not. By. His. Side?”

“Because I need to keep him safe, Hannah. Priorities, you’d fucking know. Getting this guy is more important than sitting by Cas’s bedside to hold his hand on the off chance he fucking wakes up!”

She sneers.

“I know you, Dean Winchester, Michael sword, coward. This isn’t about protecting Castiel. This is about you – you’re afraid.”

“I’m not—”

“Then why are you here? Why not send Sam after the monster, while you tend to your beloved?”

“Because, I,” he stutters, unable to put it into words but still fucking trying anyway. “Because I need to make sure he’s safe.”

“You’ve already said that.” She points out acidly, as Charlie concentrates very hard on her laptop screen and pretends that none of this is happening.

And then Hannah lunges forward, grabs Dean by the neck and holds him up against the wall. “But I don’t believe you. Stop lying to me, Dean.”

Charlie looks around for something to use to help Dean, draws a blank. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Hannah doesn’t seem intent on killing Dean, just hurting him, but neither are great.

“I can’t do it, okay.” He spits out. “I can’t look at him like that and know if I’d just been a bit fucking quicker none of this would have happened.”

“Tough.” She replies. “That’s your responsibility.”

What little fight Dean had left whispers away on a long exhale.

“I can’t, Hannah. I watched Sam go through withdrawal and I can’t do it again with Cas. I can’t see him like that, twitching and writhing and suffering and begging for it to end. I’m a fucking coward, a fucking pathetic coward.”

She lets go of him.

“There’s something we agree on, then.”

“Anyway, I’d be useless. I know it, you know it, Sam fucking knows it. Him staying was his idea – he has experience with this sort of shit, he knows what to do, how to help.”

“What would help, is Castiel having you at his side as he goes through one of the most difficult and traumatic events of his mortal life.”

“What would help is me not being there to fuck it up, fuck him up even worse than he already is!” Dean shouts back at her. “That what you want to hear? That everything I touch turns to shit and now look, I’ve finally managed to do it to Cas as well; he’s fucking skin stretched over bones, pumped full of highly fucking addictive drugs, and god knows what his mental state is. Congratulations, I have irreparably destroyed the thing I love, just like you knew I would.”

Hannah rolls her eyes.

“Cas’s current state is not _entirely_ your fault. The same can’t be said for his reaction when he wakes up and realizes you’d rather play ‘hunter-buddy cop’” she says the words like someone repeating something in a foreign language, “than stay and look after him.”

“Guys!” Charlie interrupts and they both snap to face her. “Can you two like, stow this for five minutes. Hannah, you might think Dean made the wrong decision, but it’s too late to go back now. Cas is a ten hour drive away, and Sam knows the ins and outs of junkie care better than any of the rest of us. Dean, I assume you summoned her here for a reason and not, y’know, because you like getting beaten up?”

“Yeah.” He says, and then elaborates at Charlie’s irritated hand gesture. “I wanted to check the summon-trap thing, but I also wanted her to examine my bullets and handcuffs. No margin for error, we might only get one shot.” He shrugs.

Hannah picks up the bullets one by one, examines them with a deepening frown.

“So?” Charlie prompts.

“About half of them are useless – shaky lines or stray flicks. The rest are serviceable.” She fixes Dean in her penetrating stare. “Who taught you how to do this?”

“My grandfather gave me the idea. He put a devil’s trap on a bullet, used it on Abaddon.”

“And he gave you the idea for the handcuffs as well?”

“Nah. That was mine – we used the demon version to trap Crowley.”

“Ingenious.” Her tone suggests she doesn’t approve, though.

“What’s your problem?” Dean asks.

“Yet another weapon for the host to deal with. If these fell into demonic hands…” She pauses, considering. “I will allow you to use these, this time, but they must be destroyed, along with all record of that sigil, once the hunt is over.”

“You don’t get to decide that shit.” Dean growls.

“The host can’t do its job if there are demons trapping us and binding us to our vessels every time we come to earth.”

“How about we talk about this when it’s all over instead?” Charlie, in her role as apparent fucking chairperson of this debate-slash-fight interrupts.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Is there anything else you want, Dean?” Hannah asks, sounding like she’d really rather be anywhere but here right now. The feeling goes three ways.

“Yeah. I need to know which angel has a guy by the name of Robert Lacey as a potential vessel.”

Hannah does her angelic blinking thing for a few moments, and then comes back with a reply.

“There are approximately 13 angels on earth unaccounted for who can possess that bloodline.”

“Unlucky for some.” Dean mutters.

Hannah looks at him in askance, but he shakes his head, doesn’t bother to explain

“Okay.” Charlie says. “So we summon until we hit the right one.”

“You won’t be able to do that.” Hannah says.

“Why not?” Charlie asks.

“For the same reason that you couldn’t summon me until I gave you the correct name.”

“Okay, and you don’t know any of these angels’ special names?”

“No.”

“Well fucking load of good you are, Hannah, thanks.” Dean sneers.

“Heaven is still recovering from a civil war. Is that really an atmosphere that you think would encourage free sharing of a name that allows you to be summoned or compelled?”

“Yeah, well.” Dean doesn’t have a reply for that, doesn’t stop him trying anyway.

“So what do you suggest we do?” Charlie asks, partly because she does actually want to know, and partly to stop any fights before they start.

Hannah shrugs

“Go about it as you would any normal hunt.”

Which wow, spectacularly helpful. Hannah must see Dean’s unimpressed expression because she sighs.

“What more do you want from me, Dean? I’ve had to call Lelahel back to heaven so she doesn’t find out – I don’t even trust my closest allies with knowledge of Castiel’s current state, and when an angel is banished they can go anywhere. They’re not dogs – I don’t have them chipped.”

Her tone suggests that she has thought about it, many, many times, but is still wrestling with the logistics of putting a tracer on beings made mostly of wavelengths, and who don’t possess their own corporeal bodies.

“Now, is that all?”

“Think so.” Charlie says.

“Good.”

She makes no move to leave, instead pulling a phone out of her pocket and tapping at the screen.

 “Um, what are you doing?”

“Letting Caroline’s husband know that I am finished so that he can summon me. Our arrangement apparently doesn’t involve her body being abandoned in motel rooms halfway across the country when I’ve finished with it.”

“Hang on – so you’ll give _him_ your name so you can be summoned, but when Cas was missing—”

“Caroline already knows my true name, and transporting her body back the human way would take hours of time that neither of us have. Especially if this is going to be a regular occurrence.”

“Trust me, this is going to be as irregular as possible—”

Dean says to the empty air, as Hannah vanishes.

 

*

 

“Hannah.”

Joe greets her with an awkward little wave. He still doesn’t quite understand this whole angel business, but it’s important to Caroline, so it’s important to him. She smiles back at him, and then her mouth opens and a thin stream of silvery light flows out of it and up into the sky.

Okay, that’s fucking weird. He’s not gonna get used to that.

“Caroline?” He asks, even though he can instantly tell. They’re just…different. Hannah has a unique way of holding herself; she wears the body like a suit, which he supposes it is to her.

“Glad to be back.”

He folds her into a hug, kisses her.

“How was it?” He asks when they break apart.

“Not quite as intense as usual.”

“Oh really? No getting shot this time?” He aims for cavalier, shoots very wide and ends up somewhere around disapproving and terrified.

“Mostly just arguments.”

“Huh.” He didn’t realise it was possible to pack so much relief into a single syllable until he tried it.

“I promised Hannah I wouldn’t tell you anything specific.”

“For my own safety, yeah.”

“I’m sorry, I know it must be—”

“I don’t mind. I think the less I know about this sort of stuff the better, really. It’s one thing knowing that you can be shot with impunity, it’s another to actually hear about it happening.”

“You’d rather I didn’t tell you?”

“You can talk to me about it if you need to, of course, but don’t feel you have to tell me.”

“Deal.”

“Great. So, anyway, angelic business aside, where are we going for lunch?”


	25. It Only Takes One Match to Burn a Thousand Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Stereophonics song, _[A Thousand Trees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-S1o5OmMMo)_

Sam waits outside Cas’s room – one of the spare bedrooms, repurposed – until the Valium kicks in. It doesn’t take long, nothing in that stomach to slow down absorption. He brings the tub back in and sets it down, peels Cas’s clothes off his body, goes right down to the underwear this time too. It’s gross, but someone has to do it, and he doesn’t think Cas is in the right state of mind to wash himself right now.

He cleans him quickly, clinically. Years of hunting have almost destroyed his gag reflex, but he still struggles a little. Blood and viscera he can deal with, this he isn’t quite used to. Cas’s boxers are going to be burned, there’s no saving them. Possibly salted as well. .

Sam slips a clean pair up over his jutting hipbones, but doesn’t cover up the rest of him yet. He wants to give the poor guy some vague sense of modesty, even if he knows there’s every chance he’s gonna soil whatever Sam puts on him anyway, but he also needs to check his injuries, make sure nothing is infected. That’s the last thing they need right now, when angel healing doesn’t mean shit.

Demonic healing, that’s another matter, and well, Dean has a fucking history when it comes to deals with demons and people he loves.

Sam cleans all of Cas’s wounds with care, none of them look infected, but he thinks he might give him some antibiotics anyway, just in case. No such thing as being too sure. It’s the wings on Cas’s back that worry him the most – none of the slashes are too long, sure, but they’re deep, and although the wounds look fairly fresh, they’re definitely past the 24 hour stitching threshold.

He’s just gonna have to pump Cas full of antibiotics and hope for the best. Luckily they have an almost alarming stash somewhere, from an undercover job at a private clinic.

Actually, that’s a point. Antibiotics aren’t the only thing they have an alarming supply of. The shit the Men of Letters left behind is enough to sedate a small hospital. Sam has no idea what the expiration date on a crate of morphine is, but he imagines it’s a good idea to lock it away from the person with the shiny new opiate addiction.

He checks his watch. He still has nearly two hours until Cas’s Valium induced slumber wears off, plenty of time to make a start on junkie-proofing the bunker. Not that he’s going uncuff Cas anytime soon – if he still thinks he’s in a hallucination that’s not gonna be fucking safe. He’d split, and being in the state he is, Sam thinks they’d find him dead in an alley.

 Or not at all.

So yeah, until Cas at least starts fucking recognizing them, he’s stuck chained to the bed. Which of course, is just gonna make it harder to get him to trust them, and that whole dumb, vicious cycle.

 Sam starts with the morphine crate, cracks it open and takes out a box of ampules. No expiration dates on them, obviously – because that would be helpful, but they’re what, 50 years old? Probably trash, but he doesn’t want to throw them out just in case. He moves the crate into the basement, selects a room with a shit ton of keys and bolts and heaves it inside. He doesn’t bother to check inside the rest of the crates – it’ll take too long and it doesn’t matter what they contain, so long as they’re out of the fucking way. He doesn’t know if Cas knows about the medical supplies, but if he does, hopefully moving them will be enough to throw him off.

Sam locks, bolts, and padlocks the door, hoping that’s enough to stump Cas’s burgeoning lock picking skills. It’s not like there’s a sigil – that he knows anyway – for keeping people out of rooms. This would’ve been easier when Cas was an angel, but then if he was an angel, they wouldn’t need to do any of this in the first place, so that’s a stupid fucking train of thought to go down.

He hears rattling coming from Cas’s room, goes over to investigate. He’s asleep, or he’s got his eyes closed at least, but he’s writhing.

“Cas?”

He groans, long and drawn out, but doesn’t open his eyes. His uncuffed hand goes to his face, claws at his cheeks and leaves raised, red welts. Sam runs over, grabs the hand and tries to restrain him, stop him hurting himself. It’s ridiculously easy, there’s no strength in his arms. Cas twitches, tries to pull away, fails.

He makes a low, broken noise in the back of his throat, hands curling into fists so tight that his long, jagged nails draw little spots of blood. Sam makes a note to clip his nails so that doesn’t happen again. He switches his grip from Cas’s wrist to his palm, holds his hand, partly to stop him gouging further holes in his hand, partly because it looks like he’s having a nightmare and fuck it, it’s probably been three months since he was touched with any compassion. Cas squeezes, probably as hard as he can, but not with enough strength to hurt.

 The pain doesn’t wake Cas; he stays prone, shaking and moaning, grinding his teeth and attempting to pull away from Sam’s grip. Sam doesn’t let him, keeps a loose grip on his hand – enough to restrain him but not to hurt or bruise him.

Eventually he stops struggling. He doesn’t still, though, carries on twitching and spasming. Sam checks his watch. He’s got about ten minutes until the Valium wears off – although obviously it’s not an exact science, it’s still nice to have a guideline.

 It actually takes Cas another 45 minutes to wake up. He groans, tightens his grip on Sam’s hand and mumbles, “Dean?”

Then his brain kicks in, he remembers where he’s been, the last three months. His eyes flare open and he lets go, scrabbles across to the other side of the bed, away from where Sam is sitting on the edge.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Hey, Cas. I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. What did you do to me?”

“Nothing, Cas.”

“Then why were you touching me?”

“You were hurting yourself. I wanted to stop you.”

Cas laughs, but it doesn’t sound like his normal laugh. Rough and grating, bitter.

“Sure. I’m not allowed to hurt myself, right. That’s only you.”

“Cas, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Of course you won’t. You’re just a hallucination.”

“I’m not—”

“Where’s Dean? Not got enough juice to do him, thought you’d soften me up with Sam first? Thought I’d be less likely to notice the mistakes?”

“It’s me, Cas. I promise.”

“Like that means anything.” Cas snorts, and then he looks down at his shirt.

“I’m clean. Why am I clean?”

“I cleaned you up after you fell asleep.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t leave you like that—”

“That was the plan, wasn’t it? OD me and leave me, filthy and broken in that warehouse, give Dean his breadcrumb trail to find me. What changed?”

“Cas, whoever had you, he’s gone now. Dean’s out hunting him. It’s me, it’s Sam. This is the bunker.”

“Yeah, of course.” He snickers, and then flinches as a raging headache makes itself known. A nice accompaniment to the low, dull ache in every single one of his muscles.

“Hey, you okay? You need some painkillers?”

“Yeah, sure. Got any morphine?””

“No.”

“Then what use are you, Sam Winchester’s surprisingly accurate recreation?”

“Ca—”

Sam’s reply is cut short by his phone ringing. He looks down. Dean. Shit.

“I gotta take this call, I’ll be back in a little bit, Cas, okay? And I’ll bring some food with me.”

Cas doesn’t reply, too busy screwing his eyes shut and wondering how easy it’d be to throttle himself with the chain attached to his wrist.

Probably not very, he decides. He’ll save that for tomorrow. Two days is the most he’s been strung out without heroin so far, but he assumes it gets worse the longer it goes on. Maybe that’s what this is, softening him up, treating him like a human being for a while so that when he goes back, it’s even worse. It’d certainly follow the pattern.

 

*

 

It takes Dean 45 minutes to work up the courage to type in Sam’s number. Another 15 to actually press dial. He’s about to hang up when Sam accepts the call and shit, too late to back down now.

“Dean?”

“Hey, uh, hey Sam.”

“What’s up?”

“Is he awake?”

“Yeah.”

“H-how is he?”

And Sam has no idea how to answer that.

“Sam?”

“I—uh,”

“Shit. Shit, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing physical, apart from the obvious, but—”

“But what, Sam?”

Dean can’t help the panic, thick and heavy, rising up in his chest and threatening to smother him.

“He doesn’t think I’m real.”

Whatever Dean expected, it wasn’t that.

“What?”

“He thinks he’s still there, thinks he’s hallucinating.”

Dean can’t help the soft, broken noise that escapes him at that, just hopes it didn’t travel down the phone to Sam’s end.

“I should be there.” He says. Should be, but god, doesn’t want to be, the fucking depths of his own disgusting selfishness appal him sometimes.

“No, Dean. It’s better that you’re not.”

“Really?” He clutches desperately at the vague hope that he’s doing the right thing, that he’s not letting Cas down for his own shitty weaknesses.

“You don’t need to see this. He wouldn’t want you to.”

He wants to be convinced so badly, but Hannah’s words are still ringing around his head, won’t let him accept Sam’s judgement with grace.

“Sammy, I should be there. He fucking needs me, and I’m a fucking ten hour drive away.”

“Dean, don’t beat yourself up, please. It’s for the best, I promise.”

“I need to talk to him. Just pass the phone over.”

“Dean, please, don’t do this to yourself. He won’t believe it’s you. You don’t need to hear that.”

“I do.”

“Dean, don’t make me do this.”

“Put him on, Sam. Or I swear to god…”

It’s easier to be brave over the phone, where Sam can’t see the whites of his eyes or how hard the phone is shaking.

Charlie can, but she’s very busy sitting on the bed and doing a very good impression of the three wise monkeys. She sees nothing, hears nothing, and will never, ever speak about the nothing she saw or heard. She’s good like that.

“Dean—”

“Please.”

Sam scrubs his hand through his hair, gives in. He knocks on Cas’s door. Bitter laughter rings out, loud enough for Dean to hear down the phone.

Sam enters, holds his hand over the speaker in the hope that Dean won’t hear this next exchange.

“Cas?”

“What?” Cas snaps.

“Dean’s on the phone, he wants to talk to you.”

Cas squints at the phone in Sam’s hand, rolls his eyes.

“What, the voices in my head aren’t good enough? You have to add real ones too?”

“He really wants to talk to you.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to talk to him.”

“I can tell him that, if you—”

“No.” Cas says quickly. He wants to hear Dean’s voice, even if it is fake. C can replicate Sam so well, his Dean must be just as good. It’d be nice to pretend, just for a bit.

“You want to talk to him?”

“Just give me the fucking phone, fake-Sam.”

Sam lifts the phone back to his ear, addresses Dean.

“Look, he, uh, he wants to talk to you. But, he still doesn’t think I’m real – doesn’t think you’re real either.”

“I’ll convince him.”

“I hope so.”

Sam passes the phone over.

Neither of them say anything for a long while, Cas just waiting to hear Dean’s voice, Dean trying to summon up the courage to speak. Charlie abandons her pretence of being a stone, kicks at his leg and hisses, “Say something!” at him.

“Hey, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t say anything.

“Uh, Cas, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Oh god. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“It’s nice to hear yours too. Would be nicer if you were real.”

“Cas. It’s me.”

“No it’s not. You’re a hallucination. A very well done one, but one none the less.”

“No-one could mimic this sexy rumble, Cas.”

Dean’s voice cracks, but he gets the joke out.

“You even talk like he does.”

“That’s ‘cause I am.” He’s gotta keep his voice under control, can’t let it crack again. He’s gotta be strong, for Cas.

Cas draws out a long, melodious hum, but doesn’t otherwise reply.

“You gonna make me prove it, hey? That’s cool.”

“You’re not real.”

“Remember that cave, by the beach in California? With the freaky sex idol.”

“How do you know about that?” Cas’s tone becomes suspicious.

“I was there, dumbass.” He goes for gently teasing, knows he doesn’t quite hit it, but carries on anyway.

 ”What about the first time you made me laugh, really laugh. Outside that whorehouse.”

“That’s not proof.”

“Okay, um. What about after I’d just got back from the future. You were standing there by the side of the road. Can you remember what I said to you?”

“I can.”

“Don’t ever change.”

“That doesn’t—”

“I was so glad to see you. Good old, reliable Cas.”

“Stop it.”

“Remember meeting up again in Purgatory? You’d been running to keep me safe, and I was so upset, but so fucking relieved. I’d thought you were dead, thought that was the reason you were ignoring my prayers. But of course that wasn’t it. It was just you looking out for me.”

“STOP IT.”

“Or how about our first kiss. The one that wasn’t really a kiss. You just getting pissed off with me and trying to shut me up.”

“Please.” Cas’s tone turns desperate.

“And afterwards, our busted hot date. I was going to take you to a swanky restaurant, and instead we ended up running for our lives from the cops.”

“Please, mercy.” Cas is begging now, tears streaming down his face. “You’ve destroyed everything else I have. Don’t ruin my memories too. Don’t pollute them.”

Dean holds his breath, counts, releases. He won’t let Cas hear the damage. He won’t.

“That’s not what I’m doing, babe. I’m just trying to prove it’s me.”

“Just, don’t. Please. I’m begging. This is me fucking begging. I’ll do anything, whatever you want. Just stop.” He could hang up the phone, but he can’t. It’s the perfect trap, Dean’s voice. Almost enough for him to pretend. Almost enough for him to believe. Oh god, he wants to.

Dean heaves in a shaky breath finally pulls out the big guns. “I can tell you something, something you only told me.”

“No you can’t, you’re not real. This is all an illusion. Please, stop.”

“Naomi tortured you.”

“People know that.”

“She made you kill me. Over and over and over.”

He pauses, but Cas is silent on the other end of the line. Dean doesn’t even fucking now if he’s still there, but he plows on regardless.

“You didn’t want me to know, but you told me anyway, because you said you heard secrets aren’t good for relationships.”

“How do you know that? You can’t know that. NO-ONE KNOWS THAT!” Cas’s tone is wild, desperate.

“I know, Cas.”

“It can’t be you. STOP IT, THIS ISN’T FAIR. JUST LEAVE ME.”

“Hey, hey, babe . I know, it’s not fair, none of this is far. But I’ll be home soon, promise.”

“It’s not you. It’s can’t be you.” His voice drops, barely a whisper.

“It is me, babe . Go on, ask me anything, anything you can think of.”

“What was the first thing I said to you, when I found you in hell?” Cas whispers.

Dean feels dizzy, sick. He has no idea. He literally doesn’t fucking know the one thing Cas wants to verify that he’s real.

“Well?” Cas asks, acid toned.

“I – I—”

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know.” The words burn his throat and tongue, he doesn’t even mean to let them out, they just fight past without care for him.

“Oh.”

That tone is one that Dean would know, if only he wasn’t panicking too hard to hear it. Surprise, neutral to pleasant. Not the reaction of someone who’s just been proved right.

“Cas?”

“Dean? Is that you?”

“S’what I keep trying to tell ya.” Dean fails to keep the waver out of his voice.

“You said you didn’t know…”

“Yeah, uh, I fucked up. Lemme think, yeah? I’ll get it, I promise. I’ll prove it to you.”

“No, Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember meeting in hell.”

Suddenly Dean remembers what it feels like to breathe.

“And there I was thinking I was just being a shitty boyfriend.” The words spew out without his permission. They seem to be doing that a lot, recently.

“Dean?” Cas sounds uncertain, which is still way better than the hideous conviction of before – that none of this was real, just a fucking torment. Uncertainty Dean can work with, persuade and niggle and, fuck.

“Is – is Sam real too?”

“Yeah, he is. And he’s worried about you, man.”

That seems to trigger something, Cas’s mood flips suddenly.

“If he was worried about me, he’d help me.” Cas sneers.

Dean balls his fist so tight it hurts, wonders what he said, how he fucked up this time.

“Hey, hey, babe. What’s up, what do you need?”

“I need a _hit._ ”

“I know it’s tough, but you gotta stick it out, man. You can fight this thing, I know it.”

 Cas snickers.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“You don’t mean that, Cas. I know you.”

“Dean.” His tone turns soft again.

“Yeah?”

“I want to believe it’s you.”

“I know you do.”

“But it’s hard.”

“I know.”

“I thought you weren’t going to come.”

Dean muffles a sob. That’s the last thing Cas needs to hear right now.

“I looked everywhere. I’m sorry, I wasn’t fast enough.”

“I wish you’d come sooner.”

“Shit, Cas.” He heaves out between rasping breaths, “I’ll make it up to you, yeah, when I get back, when I’ve made sure you’re safe.”

Cas doesn’t know what to do. He thinks it’s Dean, it sounds like Dean, it’s acting like Dean, but it can’t be him. That’d be too easy, that’d mean things are gonna be okay, and if the last three months have taught him anything, that’s never the case.

He’s overthinking so hard it’s making his head hurt, and he can feel the nausea rising again. He’s going to throw up bile again.

He retches, and Sam makes to come over, tries to take the phone off him. Cas growls.

“No!”

“No?” Dean asks.

“Not you, Sam, he tried to take the phone.”

“Cas, are you throwing up, are you okay?”

He retches a few more times, but nothing comes up.

“It hurts, Dean. It hurts.”

The pain in his head is deepening, throbbing. His muscles are screaming and the ever-present craving is fighting its way back up into compulsion territory.

“Hey, babe. Hey, we’ll get you some painkillers, yeah. Get Sam to get you some ibuprofen, yeah?”

“I don’t want ibuprofen!” Cas snaps, and then his voice takes on a plaintive, wheedling tone. “Please, Dean. It’s so fucking bad, I just need a hit, it hurts. It hurts everywhere, I just need to take the edge off, then I’ll be okay. Please.”

“I’m sorry babe, I can’t do that for you, I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because we need to get you off that stuff, yeah? I know it hurts, but it’s only a few weeks, and then you’re out the other side.”

Cas tone flips again, hard edged and cold.

“You aren’t Dean.”

“We’ve been over this, babe.” Shit, shit, shitshitshitshit.

“Dean wouldn’t let me suffer like this.”

“I know it’s hard, but it’s for—”

“You’d do it if you loved me, but you don’t. And guess what, Dean. I don’t love you either, not anymore.”

Huh. So that’s what it feels like when your entire world drops out from under you. That’s what it feels like when all the worsts that your nightmares have been whispering to you about for years reveal themselves in a few fucking words.

It’s the anymore that does it. ‘Cause fucked up and self-destructive, self-hating as he is, Dean knows Cas loved him once. He knows that they were good, that they were happy, and in love and gross and disgusting.

If Cas had spat that he’d never loved him, Dean would know he was just trying to hurt him – punish him.

But he didn’t. He said anymore.

 Dean doesn’t hear whatever else Cas says. His fingers are moving of their own accord and he’s cut the call before he even realises.

He can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this.

He isn’t Dean? Well he wants to say that this isn’t Cas. That Cas would never say that to him, because Cas promised he’d never do this. He said he’d stick around forever, that he wouldn’t just be another checkmark on Dean’s list of people who’d abandoned him. He said he was done letting Dean down.

Except, that’s just it.

Dean let him down first. Dean started this all off. This is just Cas lashing back, repaying the damage. This is Cas telling Dean that he’s fucked up too badly this time and they’re done. This is Cas telling him—

 

 

Dean can’t do this.

He throws the phone at the window with a snarl, of rage, of something. The glass shatters with a sound that might be satisfying if the same thing wasn’t happening inside his chest.

“Dean—” Charlie goes to grab him but he slips her hold, sprints out of the door and into the night.


	26. Inside My Hands These Petals Browned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Rise Against song, _[The Good Left Undone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70hIRnj9kf8)_. A song which, incidentally, is my ultimate Dean/ Cas song. Just listen to the lyrics - they fit Dean so well, except for the very last chorus, which is 100% Cas about Dean. I LOVE THIS SONG SO MUCH OKAY.

Dean sees a flashing neon sign, and this much is familiar. Smothering heartbreak with alcohol, holding its head down under the liquid surface until it stops struggling and just lays there, broken and pathetic and not his fucking problem for a few hours before it comes back to life, swollen and bloated and fucking howling for revenge.

He orders a whiskey, and another and another – tries to drink until all memory of Cas saying – saying that – is gone.

And yeah, three months, three months of being abandoned, tortured. He gets it. He’s not saying it’d make him hate Cas, for not being there, for not rescuing him. He doesn’t think there’s anything he could hate Cas for.

Except maybe this.

_I don’t love you anymore_

_I don’t love you anymore_

_I don’t—_

There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to drown that out.

It isn’t going to stop him trying, though.

He drinks until he gets kicked out of the bar – the bartender not even trying to reason with him or get one of his friends to come and pick him up. She just stops serving and gets the bouncer’s attention, indicates him with a sharp movement of her head.

He ends up in a liquor store, throws all of his cash at the terrified guy behind the counter and takes all that he can carry.

He drinks until he physically can’t, until his hands are shaking too hard to hold the bottles and one by one the remaining few smash to the ground. There’s whiskey staining his lips and chin, dibbling down onto his shirt. He’s got it in his eyes too, must have, ‘cause his entire face is wet.

 

*

 

He wakes up on a cold, concrete floor with a hangover the likes of which he hasn’t had since he first started drinking. The slow, muggy pace of his brain is a fucking blessing, even if once he realizes why that is, it’s over. It takes him nearly half a minute to catch up, to realise what prompted his bender.

Cas said—

“Winchester?” A voice grates out, and he flinches, tries to push himself to his feet. He doesn’t manage it.

“I don’t know if I can let him out in this state, ma’am.” The voice yells back to someone who isn’t within a few feet of his blurred vision and therefore doesn’t exist to him.

There’s a quick discussion, and then a cop – wait, what? A cop enters Dean’s cell and pulls him up to his feet, half carries half drags him to where Charlie is waiting by the desk.

“Let’s get you back, Dean.”

He doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight, lets himself be bundled into the backseat of the Impala. His baby’s rumbling engine doesn’t do his headache any favours, but that’s not the car’s fault. That’s all on him.

“You have no idea how much I had to bribe that cop to get you out of there.”

Dean grunts a noncommittal noise – I heard you, but I don’t care enough to answer you with words.

Charlie sighs, concentrates on the road.

 

*

 

Charlie gets Dean back to the motel room – a different room in a different motel, because no-one takes smashed windows well – with no small difficulty. He doesn’t resist her, but he doesn’t help her either. He’s just there. His head is somewhere else entirely, somewhere full of hurt and blame and recrimination and screaming, lots of screaming. Screaming so loud that it drowns out almost everything. Not enough, not the big thing, but at least something.

Charlie finally gets Dean onto the bed, and then her phone starts to vibrate. She has to look – it could be the trace, or it could be Sam.

“Charlie, what the fuck?”

“What?”

“Put Dean on.”

“I – I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Charlie!”

She hands over the phone, says a prayer to the god of small mercies, and sets about making her all-purpose hangover cure. Flat cola with two of her extra strength 8-hour period painkillers crushed up and dissolved in it. Because it’s not like the painkillers know the difference between ow-my-uterus-is-dissolving-pain, and ow-my-brain-is-dissolving pain, and they’re all she has on hand.

“What did you do, Dean?” Sam barks down the phone.

Dean doesn’t reply.

“Dean? Dean!”

“What?” He sighs out the word.

“What did you say to Cas?”

And now he’s laughing, bitter, hideous fucking laughter.

“What did _I_ say?”

“Yeah. What did you say – he fucking destroyed my phone, smashed it against the wall until it was just broken glass and plastic.”

“S’not the only one.” Dean doesn’t know whether he’s talking about his phone, or himself.

“Dean?”

“He asked me for drugs, said if I wouldn’t get them for him, then I didn’t love him.”

And suddenly Sam’s tone is all pity.

“Dean,”

“And then he told me that he didn’t love me anymore.” Dean thought if he said it fast enough it’d be like ripping off a bandaid. It’s more like sliding another knife into the wound and wriggling it about a bit.

“Shit, Dean…”

What do you say to that? What possible thing can you say to someone, who’s just heard those words from the one person they’d finally started to trust that they never would.

Sam doesn’t know, but that’s not going to stop him trying.

“That wasn’t him talking Dean.”

“Sounded like him.”

“It’s the withdrawal, making him lash out.”

“Yeah.” Dean says, and the word has never been said with less conviction.

“I mean it, you don’t know what it’s like at first – you’d say anything, do anything for your fix.”

“If he wanted me to get him drugs, he’d have been trying to butter me up.”

“That’s not where your brain goes. It’s a simple calculation. Who can get me the shit – what buttons do I have to press? Once you realize someone isn’t going to deliver, that’s it, they’re dead to you.”

Dean makes some small, hideous noise, and Sam fucking curses his wording, plows on.

“But only until the withdrawal is gone, until you’re back to yourself.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a little while, long enough that Sam wonders if he’s hung up, or left, or just checked out entirely, and then…

“I was so happy, when I saw him. So happy when I realised it was just heroin. I thought hey, he’s alive. This is the end of the nightmare, this is easy. Poof, and that shit’s out of his system, and we can go back to our lives, happy.

“And I was so fucking wrong. This is the fucking beginning.”

“It’s not. We’ve got him now, he’s alive, he’s being looked after. It’s just a matter of time.”

Dean thinks to himself, _no. This is it, me stepping over my line in the dirt and never coming back. This is me removing myself from the equation, because I’ve fucking let him down, again, and maybe I could have dealt with that, maybe I could have suppressed it and come to terms with the fact that I fuck everything up, that I ruin it every single fucking time._

 _Maybe I could’ve dealt with that, if he’d wanted me to. If he didn’t fucking despise my guts. If he didn’t hate me._ Even thinking the fucking word makes Dean nauseous, churning up his insides. He can taste bile on his tongue. Has to bite down hard to stop it spewing out.

_But he does hate me, and I fucking understand why, so that’s it. I’m out._

Dean heaves in a few deep breaths. He’s not going back, he’s decided that. But that doesn’t mean he’s skipping out entirely. He’s gotta make sure Cas is safe first. He’s gotta catch the guy, get him locked down. He’ll deliver him to the bunker’s door. And then… and then that’s that.

 

*

 

Sam doesn’t read all of that in the silence, the irregular pattern of Dean’s breathing, but he gets the gist, gets enough to know that Dean’s a fucking breath away from falling apart.

“I came back, Dean.”

What is it about Dean, that everyone he loves ends up broken around him?

“Your problem was purged by God.”

“And? God’s intervened for Cas enough times already. He should’ve been dead a thousand times over. Something has kept him going.”

And thanks, that’s really a reminder Dean wants, all the times he’s seen Cas dead and not been able to walk away. The one time he’s alive and going to do it.

 

*

 

Sam says goodbye to Dean, hangs up the phone and wonders what the fuck he’s going to do. At the rate Dean’s going, it’s not going to be one recovering junkie in the house, it’s going to be one recovering junkie and one alcoholic intent on doing anything but, and Sam honestly doesn’t think he’s going to be able to deal with them both.

Cas is currently dosed up with as much Valium as is medically recommended to put in one body at a time. He hadn’t calmed down as the night wore on, his temper tantrum with the phone had been just the start. Sam has been physically attacked (not that it hurt), cursed in languages he suspects didn’t even exist before Cas ran out of remembered swears, had to restrain both Cas’s hands to stop him clawing at Sam’s face, narrowly avoided being throttled with the chain of Cas’s manacles, and finally, been thrown up on. Not that, as usual, there was much to throw up.

Which is the next order of the day. Food. And by food he means soup. Soup so bland, it’s practically just water with protein in it. He has a crate of nutritional drinks stashed somewhere, the type you give to patients with cancer who’re so far gone they can’t do solids anymore, but he doubts Cas’s stomach is in any way ready to even handle those yet.

Sam waits until he sees Cas start to stir, but not quite wake, and heats it up, ladles it into a bowl and puts some dry crackers on the side. Then he sneaks into Cas’s room and sets it on the bedside table before fleeing.

He has no way of knowing what state Cas will be in when he wakes up, whether he’ll still be pissed, whether he’ll know Sam is real. All he knows is that Cas is likely to be far more volatile, more likely to start throwing bowls, while he’s in the room.

 

*

 

Cas wakes up fuzzy and strung out, so no change from usual then. His muscles still ache, he still feels nauseous, and he can’t stop shivering. And of course, the ever present craving sits somewhere in his chest too, whispering to just fucking stand up, walk out of the room and score yourself something to take all of this away.

But he can’t do that, so instead he sits up, too quickly, of course. His head spins and he doubles over, retches onto the floor. He notices with mild disinterest that his nails are bloody and ripped, and that there’s a dent in the wall by the bed.

A dent which he made… with a phone?

He was talking to someone.

No, not someone.

Dean, he was talking to Dean.

The real Dean.

And he said—

Flood isn’t the right word to describe the self-disgust that the memory brings. Floods sweep through and leave devastation in their wake that, given time, can be healed. This isn’t a flood, this is an occupation. He is become self-disgust; it eats into every corner of him, drowning out the cramping pain, muffling the hum of need and want and fucking-give-me-the-drugs. Not destroying it entirely though, of course not.

He curls into a ball on the bed and refuses to move.

That’s how Sam finds him, hours later. Soup gone cold, untouched. His pillow is damp from a mixture of tears and a puddle of bile he couldn’t be bothered to move to expel.

“Oh, Cas.”

Sam sits down on the other pillow, stretches out a hand and then pulls it back. He doesn’t know what Cas is thinking, what Cas wants. Well, no, he does. He just knows he can’t offer it.

He’s not Dean, but he can do a little bit of Dean’s job for him, fill in until the real deal gets back.

He reaches out a hand, rests it lightly on Cas’s head, waits for him to flinch.

Cas tenses, like he expects to be attacked. Sam plans to stay still until he relaxes, but as the minutes wear on and Cas is still rigid, he realises that isn’t going to happen.

So he twists his hand into Cas’s hair, and starts to stroke.

And Cas still doesn’t relax, still doesn’t believe that this is going to end in anything other than pain for him, but that’s fine. They have time.

 

*

 

A day passes in which Dean doesn’t drink anything stronger than water. Not by choice, but by a combination of the surprisingly iron first of Charlie, and his stomach violently rejecting any liquid that isn’t odourless, flavourless and fucking pointless.

The little sister he never had is surprisingly good at playing pissed off mom.

“Take one step towards that door, Dean Winchester,” she tells him, without looking up from her screen, “and I will block all your cards and put you top of the most wanted list.”

“I just want some fresh air.” He snarls.

“Last time you went for fresh air I had to bribe your ass out of jail. Not doing that again.”

“Charlie—”

“Once we get this guy back to the bunker, you can drink yourself into an early grave all you want. Right now it’s focus time. Yeah, everything is shit, but at least everyone’s alive to watch it be shit, so come on.”

She’s right, and he knows it, doesn’t make him any less pissed off.

He’s not coping, not by a long shot. It’s only been a day, but give him fucking years and he doesn’t think he’ll be over hearing that coming out of Cas’s mouth.

He won’t be over it. He’ll deal with it, though, in the way that he does. He’s Dean Winchester and there isn’t anything he can’t repress. He’s had a fucking lifetime to practice it.

Every time his brain tries to throw it up, derail him and bring him stuttering to a halt, he drags up a counter image – Cas shackled to the wall in that room. Abandoned, strung out, half dead. He lets it fuel him, unrelenting rage and fury.

And that anger is good, that anger is helpful, but it’s not making him fun to be caged up in a small room with. Not fun for Charlie, and not fun for himself either.

It’s only been a day with no sign of the fucker. One day and no news of some mysterious figure popping into existence where he shouldn’t, one day of Robert Lacey’s card remaining untouched.

And Dean’s already close to breaking someone’s neck.

 

*

 

Sam’s fingers stop, and then his hand drops to the side of the bed. Cas still can’t relax though. He wants to, god he wants to. His head is telling him, just sleep, you can settle down, close your eyes, and just sleep and not worry.

That’s not how it works, though.

He’s almost certain that he really is in the bunker, almost certain that this really is Sam Winchester, sitting at his side and snoring gently. Maybe that makes it worse. Because if this is Sam Winchester, then that was Dean Winchester. Really him. Not just his voice, not just an apparition or a nightmare.

And he begged him for drugs and spat hatred in his face when he didn’t comply.

He sits up, and it’s an effort. He knows he’s weak, but then, he’s always felt weak as a human. He was power massed, infinity folded into a cloak of flesh, and then he became that flesh. Now he is less than that. He’s a skeleton held together with loose stitching. A skeleton with bones that itch, a skeleton who’s stomach can’t hold onto the almost nothing it contains, has to try and expel it. A skeleton who wants, who needs.

He folds over, so his head rests against his legs, takes in deep, gulping breaths. And of course, of course that pulls up another little string of bile from his stomach. He can taste the vomit in his mouth, wonders how much he’s done this over the last three months. It’s all been a blur, an ouroboros of agony and ecstasy .

His teeth are probably rotting, and the less said about the lining of his throat the better.

Yeah, like that’s his biggest problem.

He decides that self-loathing is not an adequate word to encompass what he feels. He feels about himself how Lucifer feels about humanity. Funny, how now he thinks he can relate to Satan. How profound, how utterly life changing it must be to hate this much.

Sam’s hand twitches at his side and he flinches.

He thinks it’s Sam, but he can’t help it, there’s a thread of anxiety that runs in every thought now. He thinks it’s Sam, but it could be a trick. He might be moments away from the flick of a knife, sharp agony, sweet counterpoint to the low ache in his bones, on his back.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice is sleep fuzzy.

He doesn’t reply.

“Cas?” Sam sits up, shuffles a little way away, eying the chain warily. Oh yeah, that.

“I’m sorry.” Cas rasps, and god, it hurts to talk.

“It’s okay. Are you, um, are you feeling better?”

“No.”

Sam makes a huffing noise, that one people do to signify they’ve heard your comment and they know it was meant to be funny, but it’s not quite enough to properly laugh at.

He didn’t mean it in jest. He doesn’t feel better. He won’t feel better.

“Look, um. I looked up online, what you’re supposed to do.”

That sounds like Sam Winchester, always prepared.

“And the Valium and stuff, yeah, it’s supposed to help, but you’re not going to get better if you don’t eat.”

Maybe I don’t want to get better. Cas thinks.

“Don’t, don’t say that.”

He spoke out loud. Of course he did. His body betrays him, in the largest and smallest of ways.

“I know it hurts, but you’ll get through this. Come out the other side.”

Cas turns to look at Sam with a significant amount of effort. He hopes he appreciates just how much.

“Will Dean?”

“Oh, you, uh, you remember that?”

He will never forget that.

“Look, he knows you’re going through some shit. He doesn’t blame you.”

Sam isn’t lying. Dean doesn’t blame Cas. He blames who he always blames. He blames Dean Winchester.

Cas tries to laugh, coughs and wheezes instead. The movement jars his back.

“Cas,”

“I’ll eat.” He just wants Sam to shut up. His voice grates, scratches. He’ll do whatever he has to, to make it stop, make it stop. STOP.

“Great.” Sam is still talking, except now it isn’t pity or worry. Now it’s boundlessly irritating enthusiasm. “I’ll get you some soup.”

Cas eats a few thin, watery mouthfuls of soup. It holds less than no appeal, and it makes his stomach quiver and growl, strange, alien sounds.

The anxiety creeps back in, almost as incessant as the cravings. There isn’t even a specific thing he can attach it to, a thing he is anxious about, even though the field he could pick from is wide and bountiful. It’s just there, general, all-encompassing anxiety, keeping the self-hatred company.

Sam is still trying to talk to him, but he doesn’t want to listen. He turns his back, curls up into a ball and focuses all of his effort on not throwing up.

Eventually Sam gives up.

“Do you want some Valium?”

Yes. How much is a fatal dose?

“I can’t give you too much, or too often. It’s addictive. Don’t want to exchange one problem for another. Dean would kill me.”

Cas doesn’t think he would.

“Maybe when you’re feeling better, we can call him again. You can talk to him.”

Cas can’t think of anything he’d like less than hearing the gaps and the cracks in Dean Winchester’s voice as he tries to pretend everything is okay, that Cas hasn’t done what he always promised he wouldn’t.

That when he said he wouldn’t leave, it was a lie.

An accidental one.

Still a lie.

His body might be here, his blood and his brain cells and his memories.

He isn’t though.

He can’t be.

He wouldn’t say that, so now he must be someone else.

Someone brittle and shattered and broken and nothing and gone.

 

*

 

Charlie ignores Dean’s relentless pacing, resists making a comment about wearing tracks in the carpet. She knows it’ll just bounce off him, like everything seems to these days. He’s not drinking at the moment, but she knows it’s only a pause. The minute she takes her eye off him, he’ll be chugging it down again. He’s throwing himself into this, into the hunt and the fight, but when they’re gone, all that pain and all that bullshit is still going to be there. Is probably going to take him down with it.

If he even intends to survive this fight. ‘Cause she knows Dean, and she knows people like him. She spent time in Oz, she’s spent time hunting on earth. She knows what it looks like when someone so commits themselves to a cause, body and soul, that that’s exactly what they end up sacrificing.

She gets up from the laptop, stretches and pushes it in Dean’s direction.

“Your turn. I’ve been digging where I can, but maybe there’s something I missed.”

Dean grunts in reply, flops down in front of the screen. His right hand still twitches, but he tells himself that it’s a different kind of twitch – itching to pull a weapon, not seconds from falling apart.

_I don’t—_

He clenches his fist, starts to type with short, staccato bursts of the keyboard.

Charlie settles down on the bed and picks up her Gameboy, selects a random cartridge and pops it in. She doesn’t care what, she just wants something to think about that isn’t this spiral into self-destruction.

She flicks on the power switch, waits for the screen to load. Mario kart. Excellent. She’s gonna play as Bowser and she’s gonna kick some serious ass.


	27. Cope and Avoid

Charlie hasn’t seen Dean drinking, but she knows that he’s started back up again. She can’t keep an eye on him all hours of the day – she’s gotta shower, take a dump, y’know. Basic human shit.

She suspects he’s been emptying out the spirits in the minibar, filling them with water or coke or whatever looks about the right shade.

He’s a sneaky sonofabitch.

He’s fucking good, too. He doesn’t smell like booze or an overabundance of mint. To be honest, he smells mainly of BO. The nightmares he refuses to admit he’s having make him sweat and he doesn’t seem to have the energy to wash himself afterwards. Or to change his sheets.

Eventually the smell of man sweat gets too much.

“Dean.” She snaps. “For the love of all things nerd, please, clean yourself.”

He blinks at her dozily, half wasted, sniffs at his pits.

“S’fine.” He mumbles.

“It’s not, Dean! I can barely breathe in here. You smell gross, and this isn’t a goddamn request!”

He rolls his eyes, mutters something about prissy fucking women – deliberately goading her, so she doesn’t rise to it – but then he does shuffle in the direction of the shower. Charlie cranks open the window, waits until she hears the shower running, and then she starts to rummage through Dean’s duffle.

There’s a half empty bottle of Jack at the bottom. Fucking hell, he hasn’t even left the room in four days – how did he even get this?

She reasons – correctly – that if he managed to get one, he’s probably got others too. She sweeps the entire room, strikes gold under the pillow – wow good hiding Dean, and again under the mattress.

John Winchester, eat your heart out.

Charlie pours out all of the bottles, rinses them and leaves them out on the counter. He’s gonna notice they’re gone so there’s no point in hiding them; she might as well slap him around the face with it.

The shower stops running, and a few minutes later out steps Dean, flushed red and with a very small towel wrapped around his waist. If Charlie wasn’t a) massively gay and b) busy gearing up for a fight, she’d hardly be able to look at him.

She doesn’t get that fight. He just looks at the bottles, gives a little harrumph and starts pulling clothes out of his duffle.

So that means he’s got more stashed away. Fabulous.

 

*

 

Dean doesn’t cope well with inactivity at the best of times, and this could not, in any way, be described as the best of times.

He goes through cycles – flurries of movement and activity, angry pacing, barely restraining himself from lashing out – at the walls, at himself, at Charlie.

He’d never go that far.

He’s hurt enough people in his time. He’s not going to fuck her up too.

The moments between fury he punctuates with sneaky gulps of whiskey and lost time, moments where he catches himself staring at nothing, or at his reflection in the mirror, seeing nothing at all and far too much.

He looks gaunt, uncared for. Like he doesn’t give a shit anymore and doesn’t care who knows it.

Sounds about right.

He’s in one of these half-absent periods when Charlie starts to yell for his attention.

“Dean?”

He hears her vaguely, like she’s behind glass or under water or some other metaphorical bullshit. It takes concerted effort to drag himself back to the here and now. He nearly doesn’t apply it, but there’s something in her muffled tone, something that sounds like maybe it might be urgent.

He mentally steels himself, rolls his shoulders and claws his way up through thick mud.

“Dean!”

“What?!” He snaps.

“I said we’ve had a hit. He’s in Denver.”

Dean achieves razor sharp focus instantly and with ease.

“How soon—”

“Don’t get mad.”

“What?”

“I know you don’t like to fly, but—”

“I don’t care.”

“Really? ‘Cause the books made it sound like a pretty big deal.”

“Charlie. I. Don’t. Care. When do we leave?”

“There’s a private airport nearby. I’ve already hacked in and sorted us a flight – we’ll be in the air in just under an hour, be there in around three.”

Dean doesn’t blanche, even though he knows private means small, and small means not safe. In his head, anyway.

"And you don't even need to worry about the Impala - I've got a driver service, they'll bring the car to meet us, in case, y'know."

Dean doesn't even register that Charlie just told him someone else is gonna be driving his car all the way to fucking Denver for him. He's still stuck on the other thing.

“Tell me it comes with a pilot.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

 

*

 

Dean, in a move that surprises literally no-one, spends the entire flight in the bathroom, throwing up. No amount of luxury can make up for the fact that they are _hurtling through the sky at a bajillion miles an hour in something made ENITRELY OF METAL AND OTHER VERY HEAVY THINGS._

Charlie had expected to spend the entire journey guarding the fully stocked bar, instead she sits in a very comfortable chair reading back issues of _Young Avengers_. Because you know what, sometimes it’s nice to read something where everyone is queer and nothing is LGBT related pain. Sure, there’s pain, but it’s not woe is me for I am gay and my life is a tragic lesbian struggle pain.

She’s looking at you, Netflix.

 

*

 

They go to the motel first, because it’s been three hours and C won’t still be at the shop he was pinged at, but there will be a trail. Not, however, a trail that can be picked up by a Charlie in (accidentally) ripped jeans and a shirt, and a Dean Winchester who smells of puke.

Dean showers at breakneck speed, comes out of the bathroom surprised and mildly impressed to see that Charlie has pressed his suit and is already looking immaculate in hers.

“I know. I’m good. I even remember which way the badge goes.”

Dean smiles tersely in reply. Yeah, okay, he’s not in a good place right now. Charlie gets that, she does. She just isn’t all that hot at the whole dealing with people’s emotions with something other than humour. It’s probably why she gets on so well with the Winchesters. Avoidance by humour is just as much avoidance as running away is.

*****

 

Sam raps on Cas’s door. Cas doesn’t say anything, but he enters anyway. If he waits for permission he’ll be at the doorway from now until the end of time.

Sam doesn’t want to do this, but he has to. He sits on the chair next to Cas’s bed, sighs as Cas turns so that his back is facing away from Sam.

“Cas, I know you’re not in a good place right now, but I need to ask you some questions.” Cas doesn’t give any sign he’s heard, but Sam carries on regardless. “Can you remember the name of the angel who did this to you?”

Cas’s sits up, eyes flaring wide and he howls, terrified, furious. Sam can’t tell which.

“Get OUT!”

Sam does as he’s told.

 

*

 

“Yeah I saw him. And what’s it to you?” Karl, the world’s most hostile checkout boy – which is an accolade in itself – asks Charlie.

She assesses him, decides he’ll react best to something gory and also vaguely threatening.

She pantomimes a nervous eye flick to “John Bonham” – and she doesn’t know whether Dean deliberately picked the pseudonym of someone who died of alcohol poisoning as a little fuck you in her direction, or it’s just random middle fingered chance, but she has her suspicions. 

Charlie pretends she’s making sure “John” isn’t listening, and then she leans in, like she’s about to tell Karl the world’s juiciest secret. The kid holds up his bored façade, but she’s pretty sure he’s at least slightly intrigued.

“Look, and keep it on the dl, yeah – but he’s a serial killer – we’ve been after him for years.”

“Yeah? What’s his MO?” Karl doesn’t sound too impressed.

“This poetic justice SAW thing – he kidnaps people who do drugs – and are known to, plants extreme paraphernalia in their houses – needles, heroin, meth, y’know. Enough to make people just think they’ve gone off the junkie train when they vanish.”

The kid is rapt now, and a little nervous looking too.

“That’s not the worst bit though. The people he kidnaps, he takes them to warehouses, gets them hooked on heroin and tortures them, denies them the drugs unless they beg him for the knife.”

“How does he kill ‘em?”

“Mixed bag. Some from their wounds, quite a few starve to death.”

“You’re shitting me, lady.”

 “I’m not. “

“I’m gonna ask—”

“Don’t.” Charlie hisses. She’s spun enough of the little she knows of Cas’s actual story in that Dean would fucking flip if he heard. “This is against protocol and my partner’s a tightass. You’ll get me fired.”

“ It’s legit?”

“Swear it on my badge.”

The kid seems suitably mollified.

“I knew there was something weird about him. He was all polite but a jerk – like those snobs who think they’re above you but can’t be bothered to cause a scene by telling you to polish their boots.”

Definitely sounds like an angel – one trying to blend in and not be seen, but letting his disdain for all things mortal get in the way.

“Can you tell me what he bought?”

“Uh. Two cans of spray-paint and a map of the Arsenal.”

Charlie does the universal dumb blink of _I am not a local explain what that is._

“The Rocky Mountain Arsenal? The fucking nature reserve.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Don’t they teach you nothing in” he casts around for the word, “Fed school?”

“Clearly not. He buy anything else?”

“Nah. He asked where he could get a laptop and a, and I quote, “’portable wireless internet dongle’. I mean, who the fuck even talks like that? Bullshit.”

“Where did you direct him?”

“I told him I’m not fucking Yelp and he could do one.”

Bet you’re regretting that now, Charlie wants to say. She doesn’t though, because she’s pretending to be a professional.

Instead she goes with, “Well, if he asked someone more co-operative, where might they have directed him?”

“The Best Buy, down the street.”

“Excellent. Thanks, you’ve been really helpful.”

“Look, um, agent, I was like, a major heap of dicks to this guy. Is he gonna make me his next project?”

Possibly, Charlie thinks. We don’t know why he went after Cas, but she’s betting it wasn’t random chance – and from what little Sam has told her, the angel went to great lengths to torture Cas as thoroughly as possible. Sounds like a hell of a vindictive bastard.

“I don’t know. He’s unpredictable. But, if he does, here’s my card.” She hands it over. “Call me any time of night or day if you even think you’ve seen him.”

“If I help you catch him will I get a reward?”

Yeah, she thinks, I won’t set Dean Winchester on your zitty little ass.

 

*

 

Sam isn’t eager to let Cas call Dean, not after the last time. After a few days of begging, though, he caves. He insists they put the phone on speaker, insists on holding it himself, ready to cut and run if things get nasty again.

Cas wishes he’d fucking listened to Sam. ‘Cause it turns out that the one thing worse than calling Dean Winchester and getting a reply, hearing the hurt in his voice, is calling Dean Winchester and getting voice mail.

He doesn’t even extend the courtesy of letting the call go all the way through.

“I’m sure he’s just busy, Cas.” Sam says, not meaning it, but trying. “He’s out there, going after the guy, the um, angel, who did this to you.”

“Yeah.” Cas says. “I’m sure he’s very busy.”

 

*

 

Dean looks down at his phone. He recognizes the number, one of Sam’s many burners. He cuts the call with gritted teeth.

He tells himself that he’s busy, that he’s at a crime scene, that he doesn’t have time.

He lies to himself almost flawlessly. Unfortunately, there’s no-one who has more experience unpicking Dean’s lies than himself.


	28. An Appetite For Self-Destruction

They hit a dead end at Best Buy. All that the woman behind the counter can tell them is that, yes, Robert Lacey did come by here, and yes, she will keep an eye out for him.

She also asks Charlie in an undertone if her partner is okay, does she need to call an ambulance, or offer him a drink of water or something.

“This case is very personal to him.” Charlie replies, wishing it weren’t true, that this was just another hunt. “He’s not taking it very well.”

She nods. “It looks like it.”

She has nothing else to offer, though, so they retreat back to the motel.

Dean’s phone rings again. This time he just ignores it, grits his teeth and waits for the ringing to stop.

 

*

 

“So,” Charlie starts. Dean’s head jerks up and he looks at her like he hadn’t even realized she was there. “We know he’s somewhere in the Arsenal.”

“Yeah. Which helps a-fucking-lot . I looked it up while you were talking to the chick in Best Buy. It’s 17,000 acres.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, so, uh, the beating the grass approach. Not gonna work.”

“No.”

“But I have an idea.”

Charlie is struck with visions of holy oil forest fires to flush the fucker out. Which obviously, y’know, not great. Area of great natural beauty, buffalo preservation – meet the wrath of Dean.

“I do as well.” She gets in quickly, pre-empting.

Dean blinks at her, surprised. She tries not to be offended. It’s probably nothing personal. He thinks this is his crusade, he forgets that she’s Cas’s friend too.

She had to drag the bones of the story out of Sam, tear it from him. And yeah, she gets it. Dean’s too fucked up to tell her about it, Sam’s too busy dealing with it.

But she’s Cas’s fucking friend too. She’s not an accessory, or a spare gun. Someone she cares about is hurting, and he isn’t fit to talk to her about it, and the people who are – ish – won’t do it unless forced.

“If he’s using an internet connected laptop, that leaves a trace. Usually it’d be like looking for one particular drop of water in the ocean – cities, towns, villages. Everyone’s connected these days.”

She sees understanding spark in Dean’s eye long before he lets on. God, whoever told that young boy that he wasn’t smart – whoever made him think of himself as a grunt first, a body to be thrown in front of a bullet second, and nothing of any great importance third – she’s hopes they’re rotting in a far too shallow fucking grave.

She can see the answer on his tongue, but something’s blocking it. And she’s frustrated, and she’s upset. But she loves Dean like a brother, and she doesn’t know what’s going through his head, but she can see how hard he’s taking things, so she doesn’t play teacher and try and pry it out of him, she just tells him.

“Except in the middle of a huge national park.”

“Not much internet there.” He confirms, like he’s just coming to understanding, like he hasn’t known this all along.

“Exactly. So, back to the motel, I need to set up some stuff,” lies, “it’ll take a few hours.”

“Oh, uh, okay. I spose I could do some research.”

He practically flinches at the suggestion of empty time. It’s not something he’s been enjoying recently. Empty time means space for thought. Space for thought means…

_I don’t love—_

*

 

Charlie has a plan. Because Cas is her friend, but Dean is too. And Dean is the one she can help right now, and Dean needs sleep. He needs a lot of other things too, more probably, but sleep is what she can deliver.

She sets her laptop up to run some false coding looking bullshit, turns of the lights, gently rests her hands on Dean’s shoulders and walks him back to the bed. He looks at her, gaping, confused.

“You’re—”

“I’m not trying to get laid, Dean.”

“I know.” He says, but he doesn’t sound sure. He doesn’t sound sure of much these days, though, so she lets it slide.

She presses down on his shoulders until he sits on the bed, pushes further until he’s lying down. He looks up at her, rabbit eyed, confused. She lies down at his side, pulls at him until he turns over, lying with his head against her collar.

“You’re not okay, are you?” She asks.

She expects him to flinch, deny, leave.

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I—”

“You can, Dean. No-one here is going to judge you.”

“I, I—”

He tries, stutters and can’t get the words out.

“It’s okay if you can’t, too.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but he does finally settle his arms around her, hold her close.

It’s not the same, it doesn’t fix things. Doesn’t mean it’s not nice. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her too, in a very different way.

It takes them both a long time to fall asleep – Charlie holding herself awake deliberately, biting her tongue and flaring her eyes.

Dean doesn’t have to try and keep himself awake, every time he closes his eyes he sees track marks and blood and knives.

 

*

 

Cas eats once in the morning, throws most of it up by lunch. But hey, that’s a few hours, something must have stuck. He doesn’t get given any more Valium, though, and that’s the bit he fucking cares about.

“Sam.” He pleads, as he’s handed his bowl. Another watery soup, even less appetising than the last. “Please, I need it. It hurts.”

“I can’t give you any more, Cas – it’s addictive. I can get you ibuprofen, or regular sleeping pills. That’s it.”

“You don’t understand.” He groans, yanks at the chain holding him to the wall, tries to fight back the tears forming in his eyes and fails. Always a losing battle against his hideous, traitorous body.

“I do understand. I’ve been exactly where you are – except I didn’t get any medication to pull me through it.”

He’s not saying that to one up Cas, or to be cruel. He’s just trying to remind him that it’s fine, that it can be done.

Sam is being reasonable, but Cas doesn’t want reason. He wants drugs, and if he can’t get that, he wants a fight. He wants distraction, something big and hideous and violent and enough to take his mind off Dean, off the floodwater running through his veins – picking up all the low level detritus and debris of his life and pushing it up to the surface – the fear, the anxiety, the self-doubt and self-hatred.

The itching, burning musthaveneedwant that’s still, four days later, crawling through his veins.

“It’s not the same.” Cas spits.

“Why not?”

“’Cause you did that to _yourself._ ”

He’s an excellent tactician, he knows the weakest point in any strategy, can find the hole in any armor or defence.

It’s not hard to extend that to people too.

Sam flinches, but Cas carries on.

“And you still got it fixed for you. What do I get? NOTHING.”

He hurls his bowl at Sam, who dodges to the side, lets it clatter and smash on the floor and exits the room.

Yeah, he’s fucking glad Dean isn’t here – not that it helped any, not that the damage hasn’t fucking been done. Not that one phone call wasn’t enough.

He knows Cas would never normally say that, he knows this isn’t Cas talking, and all of that clichéd bullshit. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hit home, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

They’ve all done their good, they’ve all done their bad, Dean and Cas and Sam. Not one of them deserves more absolution than the other – but maybe Cas has a fucking point.

Sam was a junkie by choice, fucked up choice, hideous choice, but still choice. He didn’t have to say yes when Ruby opened her veins and offered her blood.

Why does he get a clean slate, and not Cas? Cas, who never fucking wanted this. Cas, who’d never have touched the stuff if it hadn’t been forcibly pumped into him.

Why doesn’t Cas deserve the same?

He gets his phone from his pocket, dials Dean’s phone number.

Straight to voicemail.

He tries Charlie’s, and it rings and rings.

Yeah, okay, they’ve got their own shit going on. He’s just gonna have to pull himself up and sort it out.

And because this is Sam Winchester, because the first thing he learned from his big brother was how to put other people first, he does.

He steels himself, raps gently on the doorframe of Cas’s room.

“Hey.”

Cas looks up. His eyes are red rimmed – but they always are, these days – his shoulders are shaking slightly and there’s a trail of bile hanging from his lips.

He disgusts himself. Crying so hard he threw up again – because he’s pathetic, and the only thing it’s easier to make him do than cry right now, is to evacuate his lack of stomach contents.

“I’m sorry.” He tells Sam, wiping one eye with his manacled hand – and Sam frowns at it, wants to take it off so badly. He hates looking at him there, chained to the fucking bed. But what other choice do they have?

“I don’t really think that.” Cas carries on. “None of that was your fault. I’m just—”

“Angry.” Sam says. “Bitter, that it had to be you. You don’t understand what’s happening and you hate it. Your body won’t do what you want it to anymore, and sometimes your tongue sharpens itself without your permission and just goes and carves holes in the people around you – usually when they deny you what you think you need.”

Cas nods, ashamed, anxious, all the fucking a’s.

“I know it feels like no-one could possibly ever have been through this before, that this must be unique and brand new and the end of the world, but it’s not. There’s a reason I’m the one who stayed while Dean went out to hunt the guy who did this to you.”

Cas makes a little pained noise at the mention of Dean’s name, but Sam plows on.

“He loves you, but he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what it’s like to go through this. Won’t until the day comes when you tell him, and probably still won’t fully understand it, even then. But he’s doing what he can, because he loves you. He’s out there hunting the son of a bitch that did this, to bring him back so you can take your revenge.”

Cas scowls, because all these kind reassuring words are great, but wait, just fucking wait until Sam hears what he has to say. What Cas did.

“You wouldn’t be so kind if you knew what I’d said to him.”

It still hurts to talk, both in his throat, and somewhere deeper, at the center of him. Talking, begging, attacking, was what got him into this mess in the first place. Maybe they’d all be better off if he just shut the fuck up for once. He won’t though, he has to get this out – then Sam will be so disgusted with him that he’ll kick him to the fucking curb like he so desperately deserves. Then he can go and fucking score and die somewhere in peace like the ridiculous junkie he fucking well is.

“I know, Cas. He told me.”

“Oh.” Really eloquent.

“And I won’t tell you it didn’t hurt him, because we both know that isn’t true. You hurt him, and you hurt me.”

And it wouldn’t be Sam without the dramatic pause, so long that Cas wants to reach out and shake him, just yell, finish the fucking sentence! Tell me what a fuck up I am, tell me how I came crashing into your lives and tore a fucking hole punching through to the other side.

“You’ve said some shitty things, and you’ll say a lot more before this is over. And it hurts, but it’s not the end of the fucking world. We know what you’re going through, we know it’s hard, but we can fix this, all of it, once you’re through the other side of this part.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Cas says in a solemn tone. “Dean isn’t coming back.”

“He will. He’s upset, and he needs time.”

“No. He won’t forgive me, not this time.” Cas says it in a matter of fact tone, even throws in a little shrug. You almost couldn’t tell how those words snarl and bite at the inside of his throat, try and snag there like if they don’t reach the air they won’t have any meaning, won’t be true.

“Cas.” And now Sam’s looking him directly in the eye. Cas tries to flinch away, look somewhere else, but Sam won’t let him. “When has he _ever_ not forgiven you?”

Sam says that like it means something, like every fucking thing on this miserable little planet didn’t have a first time. Like everything that’s ever happened did it at the dawn of time and there’s no such thing as change.

Cas fucking hates humans, sometimes.

There’s a first time for everything. There’s also an end.

His and Dean’s slipped by when he was out of his mind with rage and drug-lust. He didn’t even get to fucking wave it goodbye.

Sam misinterprets his expression, thinks he sees anxiousness and doubt, where there’s just fucking dead, cold, certainty.

“Look, I know there’s no point telling you not to worry – anxiety is one of the symptoms of withdrawal to start with, and this all can’t be helping – but let’s take it a step at a time, yeah? Get you physically healthy, so we can’t see your ribs anymore?”

Cas had almost forgotten this isn’t his body’s natural state, that humans aren’t supposed to be vellum stretched over knives, that there is supposed to be muscle tone and fat and padding and other things. He can’t remember what his own body felt like, remembers flashes of Dean’s, firm muscles and hints of softness around his belly. He trails a finger over his own concave stomach. He can’t see it beneath the shirt but he can feel it, the lack of it. You’d barely even know they were the same species.

“Cas?” Sam’s tone is soft, the way he holds himself is soft, everything about him is soft, gentle, designed not to cause undue stress or anxiety. Quite a feat, for a man of Sam’s stature, to shrink himself down to harmlessness.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” Cas asks, idly.

Sam looks at him like he’s just asked if he thinks it’s possible to fly to the moon in a rocket built from gravel and spit. Utterly, breathtakingly bemused by why Cas would have to ask that question. He answers anyway, though.

“Because I’m your friend. Because I care about you. Because before you’re Dean’s partner, you’re my brother in all but blood. Because I give a shit about you, and one cruel remark – fuck it, Cas, a thousand cruel remarks, even if you weren’t going through withdrawal where the only thing you hate more than yourself, is every fucker around you – won’t stop that.”

Cas is crying again, only this time he’s not sure he minds it. You’re supposed to cry in situations like this, it’s not just his body taking one more high velocity dump on him from a great height.

“Now,” Sam carries on, like what he just said doesn’t mean anything, like he could just casually fucking throw it out there and not know how hard it landed. “I’m going to get you some more ‘soup’,” He makes inverted commas with his hands, and Cas almost smiles, “and instead of an apology, you’re going to eat the entire bowl.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, you just don’t want to.”

Nailed it.

“And I’m sorry, Cas, but that’s not good enough. Not for me, not for Dean, not for Charlie—”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah. Dean called her up when we split. She didn’t even blink. Hannah too.”

“Hannah is helping them?”

But Hannah hates Dean, disapproves of Cas’s choices. Why would she—

“She’s not there permanently, but she promised to come whenever Dean summoned her.”

“She gave Dean her summoning name?”

“Yeah.”

Now Cas knows he’s lying.

“She would never—”

“She did for you.” And okay, that’s a teeny little misrepresentation of the truth, but it’s for the greater good.

Like that’s always turned out well for them.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so maybe you don’t wanna do this for yourself right now, that’s fine. I didn’t want to either, at the time. Do it for all the people around you, and the other parts will come with time. I promise. Fake it ‘til you make it, yeah?”

Sounds like something Dean would say, Cas thinks wearily.

Sam wonders when he turned into a fucking junkie psychiatrist, wonders if his hack psychology is going to work.

“Okay.” Cas says.

Sam blinks at him, disbelief, wonder. You name it.

“Fantastic!”

And he means that, he really fucking does.


	29. Progress, of Sorts

Things actually get a little better after that. Cas is still in pain, he still wants to throw up every five minutes, he still gets overwrought with bouts of anxiety and sudden, desperate, clawing need, but he has something to focus on, a reason to battle through it.

That’s not to say he doesn’t waver, that’s not to say there aren’t periods where he hates himself so badly he just wants to check out, whether with drugs or with a fucking gun.

It’s actually the guilt that saves him.

He said _that_ to Dean. He ruined that, and Sam doesn’t say it, but Cas can see it in his eyes, hear it in his tone, fucking smell it pouring off him in awkward waves – Dean hates him, and that ship has long sailed.

But

But

But

fucking but…

Sam reminded him, and Cas doesn’t know whether or not he’s grateful. He loves Dean, and it hurts, but, actually, Dean wasn’t the only thing, the only _person_ in his life worth living for.

He’s billions of years old, old as time, old as fucking thought. And breaking your own heart hurts, there’s nothing worse, and yes, it is a pain that he will never recover from. Not having Dean will stay with him, will never fade, never stop hurting. But it doesn’t have to kill him. He can live with the hole in his chest. As long as he knows that Dean is okay – in the most clichéd of pulp romance fashions – that’s good enough for him.

And even if it isn’t, not really, he’ll just fucking make do.

And suicide isn’t a sin, it isn’t a waste of what his Father gifted to him. Not for any human, but especially not for Cas – he wasn’t supposed to feel change, to feel love and hate and hope and fear and the whole spectrum of human pain. If all that got too much for him, he doesn’t think he’d be punished for it. And if it turns out he’s wrong, well, he’s got a list of other sins he’ll be damned for first, anyway.

And suicide isn’t wrong if it’s your only option, but often it only looks that way. Often there’s another out. It is, to Cas’s mind, an admission. It can’t get any better than this. I will never, no matter what happens, get better.

And maybe he won’t. Maybe this is it for him, the constant aching in his muscles, the dull nauseating heaving in his chest, the clinging need for drugs, the need for Dean.

Maybe it won’t ever get better, but Cas learned selflessness from the true master, and even if it stays this shitty forever, there are other people who have put their faith in him, other people who need him, want him to stick around. People who trust him to at least attempt, for their sake.

People who he can’t let down by not even fucking trying.

So the next time Sam comes into the room with a bowl of hideous, watery soup, he accepts it, forces it down until he can’t fit any more in. And he doesn’t give the half full bowl back, he leaves it by the side of the bed, for later, curls into a ball and breathes deep and heavy, even though the nausea gets worse with every moment. He won’t let himself throw up, forces it to stay down.

He’s got to start somewhere; he starts here.

 

*

 

Dean wakes up someone’s arms around him, and even though in one part of his mind he knows it isn’t Cas, even though the hands are slimmer, the body too soft in places, a part of him still fights to let himself believe differently, to suppress all reasonable thought and just let himself believe that it really is Cas holding tight to him.

And then the cruel, rational part of his mind reminds him who it really is, and of course with that comes the dull, nagging ache. _You heard what he said_ , that nasty little bit of his brain sneers. Cas is never going to hold you like that again. You let him down, you weren’t good enough, you couldn’t fucking save him. This is your fault. He needed you, he begged and begged and begged for you to come.

And you were too late.

Dean unwinds himself from Charlie’s arms, and she doesn’t stir. The only thing that stops him from tearing out of the room and to a bar is the knowledge that they’re maybe hours away from finding the guy who did this and he can’t let Cas down again. He’s gotta do this, and then he can go and drink himself to a blackout, or an early grave, or just fucking numbness.

He’s gonna fix his mess, and then fuck off, before he can create a new one.

Charlie’s laptop is still running matrix-esque looking strings of code. He didn’t know it still looked like that, assumed real life looked a little less like some ‘90s hacker movie.

He doesn’t want to disturb it, so he uses his phone instead. His wallpaper is the default swirly blue, and he doesn’t remember changing it from a drunken picture of him and Cas and Sarah from all the way back at California, but maybe he did. There are a lot of black spots, recently.

He runs a Google search for Robert Lacey, nothing new – or at least nothing of any interest to them, there’s an appeal for his captors to release him, wherever he’s being held. He has a daughter, cute little kid. Kind of reminds Dean of Claire Novak, in her younger days.

Fucking angels.

Even if they get C, even if Cas gets his revenge – this guy’s family are never gonna get their happy ending. Someone always loses.

They save people, but they can’t fucking save everyone.

There’s an awful lot of everyone, starting to pile up on Dean’s list. Vessels, possessed bastards, the just plain unlucky. He’s killed a hell of a fucking lot of innocents for the greater good.

No wonder he ended up in hell.

Dean’s ruined a lot of lives, Cas’s is just the latest in a grand old fucking tradition. But he can’t think about that now, because well, he’s got fucking stuff to do. And okay, he doesn’t get over his little pity party that easily, he just suppresses it, beats it down for now. It’ll pop back up, probably at the least convenient moment, but not now is good.

So instead of another alcohol fuelled downward spiral, he sits on his phone and looks up the Arsenal. Ex-chemical weapons manufacturing site, okay, nasty, but cleaned up and now it’s a nature reserve. Stranger things have happened. He really hopes they did a good job of that clean-up and he isn’t going to have to add mutant deer to his list of known monsters.

Anyway, he was supposed to be looking up the terrain, not pondering the dangers of chemically enhanced deer. Back to the phone – because any territorial knowledge is an advantage.

 

 

*

Charlie takes a while to stir. She’s not good at early rising – her stint at Roman Enterprises had been her longest stable 9-5 job. And neither is she a born hunter. She’s a civilian convert, not used to four hours sleep and ass crack of dawn risings.

It’s a topic she and Cas discussed at length. Well, more like Cas would text her and complain about Dean getting him up at the literal break of dawn, and she would laugh at her phone, go back to sleep, and reply smugly about three hours later when his hunt was well underway.

So she comes to consciousness slowly, with her eyes closed, seven or so hours after she went to sleep. She registers the cold side of the bed, pats at it groggily and murmurs Dorothy’s name. It takes her a moment. She buffers, remembers the where, when and why, and looks up to see Dean’s large frame hunched over his phone at the table.

He looks like shit, but, then, he has for a while. She can’t tell for certain whether today’s eye-bags are more pronounced than last week’s, whether his lips are more chewed, or nails bitten shorter.

She suspects, but she doesn’t _know._

“Dean?”

His gaze flicks up to meet hers, tired, guilty. Standard Dean emotions these days.

“Mornin’”

There’s a few moments of almost awkward silence where Charlie sits up, rubs her eyes and hates her past self for falling asleep in jeans.

“So, um.” Dean fills the silence. “Your tracking thing. Is it done? ‘Cause I can’t tell.”

Her tired brain takes a few moments to catch up, and then she looks at her computer, which is now running an actual program instead of just meaningless strings of fake code. She set the real thing to start kicking around 6am – a scan of all the possible hotspots within park boundaries.

“Gimme five to make myself human, then we’ll get on it.”

Dean nods. He’s only a morning person by force of habit, he gets it.

And maybe he itches with inactivity and coiled tension the entire time it takes Charlie to shower and caffeinate, maybe he paces, pulls at his hangnails until they bleed and picks at a loose thread in his jacket until it tries to unravel, but he waits. Doesn’t even yell at her to hurry up.

She comes out of the bathroom looking dazed, but a little more awake, accepts the coffee he hands her with a smile and quaffs half of the mug down like it’s not far too hot for a normal human to drink. Asbestos tongue and throat and stomach, apparently.

She scans the results for a few moments, nods faintly, sips slightly more cautiously at her coffee and considers.

Eventually she turns to Dean.

“Six possibles.”

He nods at her slowly.

“Two of them are visitor centers, so we can strike those out.”

“So that’s four likely spots?”

“Mmhhmm.”

“So how do we play this?”

“Well, first, we’re gonna have to hire a car—”

To her surprise Dean nods.

“Yeah, Baby’s too recognisable, and not great at off road terrain.”

“Yup. Plus she’s loud.”

“Okay, so is there one location we should hit up first, or are they all the same?”

She taps a few keys.

“’Kay, well only three of them were set up on the right day, so we can drop that list down by one,” she fumbles, brings up a map and taps in some co-ordinates. It points to locations vaguely in the center. “This one looks most likely – I can’t see what they’re searching for, whereas the others are all nature shit.”

“Okay.” Dean nods vacantly. “Are you cool to go hunt us down a car – hack a rental or just take one off the streets, whatever you think is easier?”

“On it like a vodka tonic.”

“Great. I’ll get the weapons.”

 

*

 

Sam is patient – he is. But even he has a fucking limit. He’s tried asking Cas nicely for information about his kidnapping experience, tried tiptoeing around him and being sensitive. Cas needs to recover, but Dean and Charlie need to know what they’re up against, too.

Sam’s just gotten off the phone with Charlie – because Dean isn’t answering his, of course, leaves the room the instant Charlie’s rings to avoid the chance of the phone being handed over – and he is pissed off. She thinks they’ve tracked down the angel and now they’re just about to go diving in, without even knowing who they’re fucking up against.

Sam knows he should just go to the gym and fucking punch it out, he’s on his way there. But there passes by Cas’s room. He’s sitting up on his bed, staring at Sam with glassy, vacant eyes.

“You seem like you’re in a bad mood.” Cas snipes.

“That’s because I fucking am.” Sam snarls back.

“Yeah, because your problems are so terrible.” Cas laughs bitterly.

“Oh yeah? You wanna talk about problems? People are out there risking their fucking lives for you, Cas, and you can’t even be bothered to tell us who took you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Cas growls.

“I’ll tell that to Charlie’s fucking grave, when she gets killed because she doesn’t know what she’s dealing with. That’ll make us all feel better.”

And Cas snaps, leans forward and screams; “I DON’T KNOW!” The exertion makes him cough but frankly, right now Sam has no sympathy.

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means he never told me his name, and I’m not an angel, I can’t just look at someone and know anymore.”

“He must have—”

“He didn’t tell me his name and because I’m a fucking waste of space, because I’m nothing, because I’m fucking useless, I didn’t find out.” Cas’s eyes are bulging, hands clenched so tight his knuckles are turning white. “I should have been better, a hunter, should have gathered intel and I didn’t, I fucking didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me this before?”

“Because I was ashamed! Because fuck you, Sam!”

Sam’s still too pissed off to deal with this right now, shuts the door and storms off.

 

*

 

The car Charlie casually liberates is a Land Rover, because yes, eco disaster, planet killing, gas guzzling piece of shit though it might be, it is also exactly what they need right now. Everything has a purpose. A Land Rover’s is off-road, rugged terrain – not the suburbs. She still feels guilty, don’t get her wrong, but not guilty enough to try and drive a Prius through fucking scrubland.

She drives the car back to the motel with not a little distaste. The first thing she notices is that the Impala is gone. And she doesn’t panic. Except, she kinda does, because that means Dean has given her the slip – either to hunt on his own or to acquire some liquid courage.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Sam is going to kill her. Then Cas, when he gets better, is going to kill her. Hannah will probably do the reviving in between, not quite caring enough to get her hands dirty but still pissed that she let Dean loose when actually she doesn’t want him away from Cas at all.

There’s a rap on the window and she rolls it down.

“You okay in there?” Dean asks her.

“The Impala?” She stutters out.

“Oh, um. Yeah.” He sounds hesitant. “I, um. We can’t use her, y’know, too obvious, and I didn’t want to leave her in a skeevy motel parking lot to get keyed or stolen if we have to chase this fucker.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Her insides start to unclench. “Where’d you hide her?”

“I, uh. I used a service – they’ll look after her until I can come get her.”

He looks nervous, like she’ll judge him for trying to take care of the one thing in his life that isn’t currently falling apart. The thing that’s been in his life the longest, saved him and the entire fucking world, if Carver’s final book is to be believed. Like trying to keep just one fucking thing in his life good and stable is a sign of weakness.

“I’m glad.” Charlie says. “She deserves to be looked after.”

“Yeah.” He relaxes a little.

“You and Cas can come and pick her up when all this is over.”

She pretends not to see the flinch.


	30. Subtlety is for Losers

“So, you ready to roll?” Charlie says quickly, popping the passenger side door open. Dean doesn’t get in, opens her door instead.

“Not yet. Got some stuff to do first.” He holds up a plastic bag full of god alone knows what. “You might as well go back to the room. Prolly not gonna be very interesting to watch.”

She gets out of the car with a shrug, but she doesn’t go back into the motel. Instead she sits on the sidewalk and watches as he takes out spray cans, varnish and a stack of well used flexible stencils. He uses bright yellow paint to spray Colorado Parks & Wildlife on the side of the vehicle and waits for it to dry much longer than Charlie would have, but she’s not the expert here, clearly.

Once the yellow is dry, he takes the varnish, uses it to paint a mishmash of anti-angelic warding and other, more esoteric stuff that Charlie doesn’t even recognize on the Land Rover. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to disturb his concentration. Instead she takes a few sly pictures of him, staring at the car in frowning concentration, bending over and sticking out his ass as he retrieves a dropped paintbrush with an irritated sigh, sitting cross-legged on the roof, with one paintbrush in his mouth, using another to carefully delineate something she can’t even see.

 

 She attaches them to an email, forwards them to Sam.

**— Bribery for Cas, in case you needed it.**

**— I’m not looking at those pictures.**

**— I, a lesbian female, took them. They’re not gonna be weird dudeporn.**

**— I literally don’t trust you.**

“Who you texting?”

Dean’s voice makes her jump.

“No-one.”

Dean has a little brother. He knows that look.

He snatches the phone out of her hand, scrolls through the email chain. Hands it back without looking at the pictures.

“Ready to go?” He asks, and it’s not quite terse, but it couldn’t be described as enthusiastic, either.

“Yup.”

 

*

 

The trace leads to a neatly kept wooden cabin, which, yeah. Not suspicious at all. Angels don’t need rest or shelter from the elements, they’re practically fucking machines, as happy squatting in a ditch for three months as living in silk sheets. Okay, well, maybe not quite as happy – Balthazar proved that they can experience sensation and mortal pleasure, if they want to. Point is, they don’t need to sleep or shelter from the elements, so why the fuck would an angel on the run and trying to hide bother with something as obvious as a cabin? This whole thing is stupid fishy.

Oh, but Dean’s finding it so hard to care.

“So, this looks, um. Nice.” Charlie begins, drumming her fingers on the dashboard.

“Regular little vacation cabin.”

“So it’s clearly a trap, yeah?”

“Y’think?”

“And so we’re going to..?”

“Retreat to a safe distance and observe.”

“Really?”

“No. Fucker’s an angel – not like we can starve him out.”

“But you’ve got a plan, right? One more complicated than charging in all guns blazing?”

“An idea.”

“Ideas are good.” So long as they don’t involve holy wildfires and burning down cabins.

“So, there’s this sigil.”

“I’m listening.”

“Called the Horn of Gabriel.”

Dean doesn’t even smirk or make a comment about dick jokes, like Charlie needed another signpost that something is definitely wrong with him.

“Basically it’s like some sort of angel catnip – they can’t resist it.”

“So it’d lure him out, if he’s waiting in there.”

“Yup.”

“Excellent. So what, we just paint it on the ground?”

“Not quite. It’s a spell. The ingredients are in the trunk.”

“Prepared?”

“Something like that.”

“Anything I need to know before we unleash it?”

“Be ready. Fuck knows how many angels there are around here.”

“Reassuring.”

Dean shrugs, hops out of the car and around to the trunk, where he retrieves the ingredients, mixes the spell and draws it on the side of the vehicle, because fuck it, he hasn’t been shot at yet, and subtlety is for losers. This is 100% a trap and therefore there’s no point trying to hide themselves.

Also there are no other flat surfaces nearby.

He finishes painting the sigil on, but doesn’t activate it, not yet. First he walks carefully up to the door of the cabin, places the trap sheet down right in front of it – so it’s impossible to enter or leave without having to step over it. That done, he checks his gun, weighs it in his hand and holds to see if he can keep it steady.

Not perfect, but enough.

He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders.

“We need this guy alive—”

“No fatal shots, I get it.” Charlie replies, checking her own weapon.

“—but your life is more important. If it’s he dies or you do, he dies, Charlie. Got that?”

Charlie nods.

“Say it to me out loud.”

“If it’s me or him, he dies.”

“Perfect.”

I’m not the one who needs to be making that promise, she thinks.

“Ready when you are.” She says instead, because pick your battles.

Dean nods, counts down from three, and activates the sigil.

It glows white, but there’s no dramatic flare of light or burst of noise. Nothing much happens. Charlie shoots a glance at Dean, but he motions to her to wait, keeps his eyes glued to the door.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

And then the door swings open and Dean fires. It’s automatic, he doesn’t even take the time to look, realize it’s the wrong angel.

Some fucker riding a gangly looking teenage boy. The kid crumples with a rough shout, blood pouring from the wound Dean shot in his knee.

There’s no flash of grace, no angelic scream of anger.

Just the sound of a teenage kid, crying out in pain.

“Shit!” Dean runs forwards and the kid scoots desperately backwards, one hand trying to stem the bleeding, the other held up to defend himself from Dean.

“Please, whatever you want man, take it. I won’t stop you.”

“Hey, hey, kid.” Dean goes for soothing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – you weren’t supposed to be here.”

The kid isn’t even slightly reassured, moaning and babbling little, barely coherent pleas for his life. Dean wants to punch a fucking wall, or himself. Another civilian casualty to add to his goddamn list. Fuck. He was right about the fucking trap, but not about who the danger was.

He tucks his gun into the back of his jeans, trusts Charlie to cover him, and approaches with his hands up in the air. The kid backs away again, into the cabin, but Dean follows, hand high as he can get them, muttering what he hopes are reassuring noises. He scouts around for a first aid kit, spots one fixed to the wall near the door. He grabs it down, gets out gauze and wound dressings.

“Just lemme—”

The kid stops backing away, clearly aware that he’s not going to escape this fucking maniac who’s just shot him and is now trying to make it up to him.

“Y – you’re not gonna kill me?”

“No. No way. I didn’t even want to hurt you in the first place.”

“You meant to hurt someone.”

“Yeah, well. They had it coming.”

The kid doesn’t say anything to that, but he doesn’t shy away any more either. Dean takes that as some kind of approval. He comes slowly forward, starts to tend to the kid’s leg.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Yeah? My kid brother’s called Sam.” Dean says, as he unwinds the gauze and prepares to wrap it around the dressing he’s just finished attaching to the wound.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose, of course.

The angel who had been hiding in the cupboard, teeth gritted against the effects of the Horn of Gabriel, bursts out, blade in hand. Dean has just enough time to shove kid-Sam to the side, fails to dodge the slice that carves up along his ribs. He howls in pain but doesn’t succumb. This is him. This is Robert Lacey’s body, being ridden by the angel who fucking did this to Cas.

Dean grabs his gun from his waistband and fires, misses because his hands are shaking too bad, and the fucker is sprinting past him, and he’s not going for the door, he’s going for the fucking window. He barrels out, and Dean shoots again but it’s just a fucking wasted bullet.

Now he has to pick. Because they’ve got an injured kid to take to hospital, and an angel to pursue.

He throws the keys to Charlie, who’s now in the cabin, surveying the scene with a grim expression.

“Get the kid to hospital. I’m going.”

“Not on your own, Dean.”

“Gimme your gun.”

“No.”

He grabs her by the lapels, growls in her face all threat and bluster.

“I’m going Charlie. I gotta do this.”

She presses the gun to hollow of his throat, feels it moves as he swallows.

“Do it, then.” He says.

“You can’t fucking do this, Dean. You don’t want me to throw my life away? Yeah, well I’m not letting you do the same.”

“By shooting me in the throat?”

“I’m not gonna shoot you.”

“I know.” He says, grabbing the gun and wrenching it out of her hand. He shoves past, yanks the trap blanket up off the floor, and takes off running.

There isn’t even a fucking trail of blood to follow, but that doesn’t matter for now, ‘cause it’s fucking scrubland and Dean can see exactly where he’s going.

Not that it matters, because he’s human, with human stamina, and he’s chasing a fucking angel. He sprints, and for the first little while it makes a difference, he’s closing the gap, getting close, but he can’t keep up that pace forever. The scrape along his ribs is burning up and there’s a stitch burning low in his side. He stops, lifts his shaking arm and makes an attempt at levelling the gun, first shot goes wide, so does the second. He gives up aiming, sprays and prays with the remaining five bullets.

One lodges itself in the angel’s back and he stumbles forward, but somehow fucking carries on moving. Dean sees his chance, throws himself forward. Agonizing pain shoots up his ribs as he tears the already jagged wound.

The world tips, spins, and he collapses.

 

*

 

Cahor feels the bullet dig into his back. It won’t kill him, but it hurts, is enough to render him vulnerable – almost human.

His right foot curls in on itself and he skids to the ground, screams out in pain. He doesn’t have time for lying down and feeling sorry for himself, though. He rolls onto his front, reaches back and finds the bullet hole with his fingers. He gouges his nails into the wound, digs and pulls and locates the bullet itself with no small amount of difficulty. He grasps at it, but it’s slippery, bloody, gory.

He doesn’t care about the damage he does to the vessel. He’s an angel, once this thing is out he can magic the wounds away. Getting it out before Dean Winchester gets to him is the hard bit. He finally manages a firm grip on the bullet, pulls it out and throws it away.

Instantly he feels the connection to his grace come surging back and he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t need air, but he’s been in a vessel for a long time now, some of the physical wants and needs of the individual bleed through.

This particular vessel he’s only had command of for just over four months. The one before served him well, but she was unique, his alone – he needed someone a bit vaguer, with the bloodlines of enough angels to muddy the waters and keep his identity secret for as long as possible.

He’d very much like to leave this one and go back, but, unfortunately, there are only two vessels left with his particular bloodline. The one he’s currently in, and the other one who he rode hard and badly, and is now a gibbering wreck in an institution, incapable of saying yes or no and therefore invalidated as a vessel. Consent is such a tricky issue.

Cahor heals himself, stands up and sprints off into the distance, unpursued.


	31. Always Out of Options

“Stay here.” Charlie orders the kid.

Apparently over his fear of imminent death, he gives her a look that says where the fuck do you expect me to go and sputters, “you can’t leave me here?!”

“I’m just getting something from the car.” Charlie says. “I’ll be back.”

She comes back with a readymade Hannah summoning kit. Something Dean had put together, and then conveniently forgotten about. It consists of a bowl, a match, and a wooden board painted with sigils. He’d talked about refining it, something smaller and more portable, but his impetus had left before he could do anything more than just talk about it.

Charlie pops the board down, takes the cling film off the bowl, strikes the match and drops it in, intoning Hannah’s summoning name.

She appears almost instantaneously, looking unusually rumpled. She half turns towards the door, shakes her head and then turns back to Charlie, mouth set in a tense snarl and fingers clawing into Caroline’s palms.

“What?” She grits out.

“Heal this kid.” Charlie says, without explanation or preamble.

“Why—”

“Do it.”

Hannah pulls in a deep breath, strides over to the kid and heals him with an impersonal brush of her fingers.

“Happy?”

“Yup.” Charlie turns to the kid, says, “Sam—” Hannah does a double take, looks again at the child. The buzzing sigil is interfering with her powers, she can’t look at the molecular build-up of this child and tell if he really is a de-aged Sam Winchester, has to look and squint and guess. It looks enough like him, maybe. But if it is, then why isn’t he with Cas – does that mean they’ve swapped places like they ought to – that Dean is the one sitting at Cas’s bedside, tending to him? It seems unlikely.

“— get the hell outta here kiddo, this isn’t your fight.”

Little Sam nods warily, flexes his leg, tests it to be sure.

“Hannah.” Charlie continues. “With me. He went through the window, Dean went after him.”

So Dean isn’t with Cas, and that child isn’t Sam. She is furious, but not surprised. Dean Winchester creates problems, he doesn’t stick around to fix them.

Hannah follows Charlie to the jeep – it’s easy, too easy. The Horn of Gabriel – she’s experienced it before, remembers – is somewhere in that direction, pulls her close and doesn’t want to let her go.

Charlie leaps into the vehicle, guns the engine and barely gives Hannah, who is reluctant to enter the radius of the Horn, time to climb in too before she drives off.

They don’t drive for long before they shoot past a crumpled body on the ground. Charlie skids to a halt, registers that it’s Dean’s prone form and throws herself out of the car with a curse.

She checks his pulse – alive, but unconscious. Small mercies.

She doesn’t have to ask Hannah this time, the angel alights gracefully from the car and with a put upon expression, brings Dean back to consciousness with a forceful jab. She heals his ribs, but only after she’s brought him back to awareness – she wants him to feel the full, painful severity of the wound.

“Where’s the angel?” Hannah asks.

Dean blinks woozily, points.

There’s nothing within eyesight, and Hannah can’t move too far from the jeep now, caught in the Horn’s thrall. She climbs back into the car, beckons Dean and Charlie impatiently. They hop in too, Dean woozily leaning on Charlie for support, and Hannah drives the short distance to where the body should be.

Of course, it isn’t there. There’s just a fuck ton of blood and a single, slightly dented, gore encrusted bullet, thrown a little way away.

“Well, you did shoot him.”

Charlie tries to reassure, even though she’s so fucking pissed at Dean right now. He’s lucky he’s fucking alive, lucky they had Hannah onside – lucky Charlie remembered that they could summon her and didn’t just charge off into the fucking wilderness. Lucky that the angel they were pursuing had been more concerned with his own life than vindictive revenge, hadn’t come back to finish Dean off once he was healed.

Dean should be dead right now, and at the risk of sounding cliché, he’s going to fucking wish he was by the time Charlie is done with him.

Instead she reigns it in, turns to Hannah.

“Can you tell where he went?”

“No.”

“Fabulous.” Dean grumbles, scratching at the itchy seam of freshly grown skin along his ribs.

Two furious pairs of eyes latch onto him, and he quails slightly, jumps back into the jeep.

“Come on then. We’ve gotta at least try.” He sounds okay, but Hannah can read emotions, even if the Horn makes it harder. He’s shaken and panicking and there’s so much adrenaline pounding through his system it’s a wonder his heart hasn’t beaten out of his chest.

Charlie and Hannah climb in, just in time to hear the gunshots, feel the jeep sink down as all the air fizzes out of the tyres.

Dean leaps out of the car, throwing himself down low. He sees kid Sam, on a quadbike and holding a gun. The little shit waves with a cocky smile and speeds off.

“Little fucking SON OF A BITCH!” Dean screams, as he realises they’ve been had.

“Hannah, can you?” Charlie asks, measured, reasonable, in contrast to Dean who has just punched the jeep and probably broken a bone in his hand.

“No. I can only heal living things. Car tires aren’t alive.”

“Fucking GOLDEN.” Dean yells.

But that’s not the worst of the problem. The worst of the problem is finally starting to arrive, because the Horn of Gabriel is still active, and now, finally, angels are starting to draw near.

“Dean.” Hannah snaps. “Break the sigil.”

“Wh—”

“There are other angels very close. We need to get away from here – break the sigil.”

“I don’t know how.”

She gawps at him. Humans, endlessly messing with that which they don’t understand.

“You used a sigil which you didn’t know how to break?”

“Yeah! Okay?!” Dean snaps. “That’s what I do. Start stuff I can’t fucking finish because I‘m always out of options. Now why don’t you break it and save me the fucking lecture, show me how superior you are.”

“I can’t break it.”

“What?”

“I’m an angel, we can’t break our own binding sigils, and even if we could, I don’t know how to break this one.”

“Fucking rich—”

“Guys!” Charlie snaps. “How about we leave?”

“I _can’t._ ” Hannah snaps back. “I’m trapped in the radius of the spell – I can’t get out until it’s broken or wears off.”

“Why can’t Joe summon you back?”

“He’s trying, I can feel a wrenching, deep down in my grace, but it’s not moving me – won’t until I’m free of this.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I am not. I am stuck here because of you and your messing with things you don’t understand.”

“Hannah!” Charlie snaps. “Not the time. Constructive ideas only.”

Dean surveys the sigil, spits onto his palm and tries to wipe it off. His hand sizzles and he jerks back, singed. Hannah begrudgingly takes hold of him, heals it. Next he tries to break it with a spray can. The paint either side is fine, that which crosses the white light of the sigil burns out of existence with a loud crackle and the smell of burning paint. Lovely. His final attempt doesn’t destroy the angel blade he uses, but it doesn’t do much good either.

“Nope. Not a clue.” He says with a shrug.

“You go.” Hannah says bitterly. “I’ll be more able to talk them down if you’re not around.”

“Hannah. We’re in the middle of nowhere, there shouldn’t be any angels here at all. The fact that there are means these guys ain’t gonna to be your friends – we’re not leaving you here to die.” Dean snaps.

“I don’t intend to die.” She says.

“Then it doesn’t make any difference whether we stay with you.”

“You should be pursuing—”

“How?” Dean sneers. “Can’t chase him without angelic stamina or power, don’t even know where he’s gone.”

“Now we know the vague area he is I can track him – CCTV, facial recognition, police files and stuff. We’re narrowing the circle, but we need everyone safe and whole to get it that last step.” Charlie fills in, because they don’t know how many angels are coming. Might be they’re making a big fuss over nothing, might be they’re about to be swarmed.

“Fine. Stay if you will, but if it comes to a fight and you get injured, I might not be able to heal you.”

Dean spits on the ground.

“So like every other fucking fight I’m ever in, then?”

“Can you return to heaven?”

“No, and if I could, I would not abandon Caroline here.”

“So we can’t exorcise them either.”

“No.” Hannah says.

“How lo—” Charlie begins, doesn’t bother finishing the sentence as the first car comes into view. Could be innocent, but it’s driving at a bajillion miles over the speed limit, and a Chevrolet Malibu is not a car suited for this sort of terrain. So, yeah.

The car spins to a halt by the jeep and no less than five people come pouring out. They have a semi-vacant, glazed expression – angels then, drawn by the Horn. Now that they’re in close enough proximity the compulsion effect lessens, starts to fade and the angels look up, blinking and dazed.

And then they spot Hannah.

“Hannah.” One hisses, inhabiting the body of a lithe, older black man, but inhabiting it badly, jerkily. Like a puppet who has only recently learned that he can twitch his own strings.

“Cahor wasn’t lying.” Says another, a sweet looking little Arabic girl, all innocence and stick limbs, wearing a hijab even though she’s a good few years away from puberty. Charlie fights very hard not to wonder how they got her to say yes to angelic possession by the servants of the wrong god.

 So not good, on so many levels of not good.

It brings it home in a way that looking at an adult vessel doesn’t. These people might have said yes, that doesn’t mean they’re prepared to die for some angelic crusade. Doesn’t mean they _deserve_ to.

There’s a half beat of calm, the moment of tension between two fighting dogs, circling, looking for weaknesses.

And then Dean lunges forward, trap blanket in hand. He wraps it around the child angel, neutering her power, and then knocks her to the floor and stuffs her under the jeep, out of the way.

Okay, one down unharmed, still quite a few to go, though. Still quite a few human bodies to get fucking mown down, because they’re all out of disabling bullets and the only trap is in use.

Dean’s movement spurs the other angels to action and he’s within seconds of being run through – only saved by Hannah’s furious intervention. She lunges to stand in front of him, eyes burning white hot with grace and an angel blade in each hand. She moves defensively, parries and blocks, doesn’t press or go on the attack. Dean scrambles to his feet and stands next to her, back to the jeep.

And Charlie doesn’t lunge, remembering the terrified humans trapped in those bodies. She has a better idea. She gouges her angel blade into the ground, starts to create a perfect replica of the sigil she’s seen Dean carve so many times.

She’s not so concerned with drawing it that she loses awareness of her surroundings, though. She might have spent more time playing videogames than fighting in real life, but reflexive speed and tactical genius are transferable skills. She flings herself between the angel’s legs, rolls and is on her feet before he even knows what’s happening. And the trap isn’t finished yet, and there’s no way she’s going to be able to finish it with this angel on her ass.

Charlie drives an angel blade into his back with a tight grimace. Sacrifice one so three don’t have to die. It fucking sucks, but it’s all she’s got right now.

She pulls the blade out, watches as the body slips down and wings burst, ashen and accusative, on the ground.

She can’t afford to feel fucking pity though, ‘cause she’s in the middle of a fight. She carries on slicing the ground, grimacing as she cuts through burned wings, finishes the trapping sigil.

“Dean! Hannah!” She shouts. “Over here.”

Dean understands first, ducks out to the side and charges at one angel, lunges and slashes, nicks at her arms and body and forces her to retreat back and back and back until she’s in the trap. Hannah is too busy filling the defensive gap left by Dean’s absence, and it takes her a moment, but then she too gets it.

Two angels incapacitated, one dead, two to go.

Between the three of them they manage it, herd and corral the other two into the trap. They’re wilier now, know what’s happening, but the combination of Hannah’s implacable force, Dean’s give-no-shits recklessness and Charlie’s carefully strategized movements prove too much for them.

They force the final angel into the trap with a triumphant cheer, standing back to watch as they pace furiously, testing for weaknesses but apparently finding none. And yeah it’s not the most appropriate time, but Charlie feels damn proud of her trap work.

Hannah strides over to the trap, jabs her blade at the angel standing nearest.

“Who is Cahor? Why where the five of you travelling together? Why did you try and kill us?”

“The same reason any angel would try and kill you! Imposter! False queen!”

Hannah doesn’t roll her eyes, because she is an angel, and dignified in the face of the enemy, but she can feel Caroline trying to.

“So you’re separatists?”

“As every true follower of heaven ought to be,” spits another.

“Who is Cahor?”

“Another angel. He said you were coming after him, to stay near, catch you if possible.”

That makes sense, because five angels versus one angel and two humans, that fight should have been over much quicker, and much nastier.

“Why catch?”

“He has a plan.”

“To retake heaven?”

“To take revenge.” The angel who has yet to speak, inhabiting a middle-aged Ukrainian with a thick accent, corrects.

“Is this to do with Cas?” Dean croaks.

“This is to do with everyone who stood in the way of the divine plan.”

So it’s to do with Cas.

The angel they’ve been after, who they only know as C. Well, Cahor. It fits.

 “How many more of you are there?” Hannah asks.

The dark skinned angel grins, white teeth standing out vividly against his face.

“More than enough that you’ll never rest easy again, false queen.”

Charlie is not good at serious situations, but she’s especially not good when the dialogue is more stilted and cliché than some of the crap spouted by barely pubescent kids on the fields of Moondoor. She snortlaughs, earning her an impenetrable look from Hannah and one of open disgust from the angels trapped inside the circle. Disdain is all very well, but it’s hard to be superior when one of the little mud monkeys you want wiped off the face of the planet is the one who managed to trap you.

Speaking of which, if there are more coming, Charlie really needs to work on drawing another few traps.

“Hannah, can you mark out the radius of this Horn thing for me?”

Hannah nods, takes her blade and then walks in a wide circle, trailing it lightly through the muck. Charlie nods her thanks, points Hannah to go and stand over by Dean, and starts carving a gigantic angel trap onto the ground.

Hannah obeys Charlie’s instructions, stands by Dean and murmurs into his ear, too quiet for the other angels to hear.

“As soon as the Horn breaks, I’ll be summoned away. When it does, you need to exorcise all of the angels here. Send them back to heaven, I’ll intercept them there and they can be questioned without recourse to torture.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

She pulls back to look him directly in the eye, lets blue sparks hiss and crackle underneath her skin. He isn’t cowed. He draws himself up to full height, stares her down.

“You don’t scare me, Hannah.”

“If I find out you’ve laid a hand on any of these angels, their innocent vessels—”

“You’ll what, Hannah?” He steps forward, jabs at her stomach with his angel blade. Not hard enough to puncture, but enough to make her jerk backwards.

She scowls, knocks the blade away with her own.

“I know exactly what you’re doing, Dean Winchester, and I will not be goaded. Live or die by your own pathetic hand. Don’t expect me to take your life for you.”

“GUYS!” Charlie snaps.

They’re supposed to be the professionals here and once again, they are being about as useful as old white men at an abortion debate.

Charlie’s circle is finished; all they have to do now is wait and see if any more angels turn up. And also hope that no park rangers make a showing. Um, yes, hello, we aren’t defacing parkland at all, nope, as you were, thanks guys. And don’t worry about these pacing weirdos. Nothing to see here. Promise.

It’s possible the excitement is making Charlie a little giddy.

Dean and Hannah turn to look at her a little guiltily. Well, she thinks that’s Hannah’s guilty expression. For all she knows it could be her I’m about to smite you face. Charlie really can’t get a read on her.

“I can’t sense any more angels nearby, but it might just be the Horn interfering with my powers. We’ll just have to wait and see.

 

*

 

It takes three hours, and seven more angels before the Horn breaks.

Hannah has blades locked with another angel when she vanishes, causing him to tumble ungracefully to the ground. Charlie laughs, but Dean doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s going mano a mano with another and he’s doing a terrible job of it. He’s leaving himself almost undefended, trusting to his lashing quick shots to keep the angel at bay. And, seeing as angels are faster and stronger than he is, it ain’t working too great for him. There’s nothing deep, but Charlie can see some score marks through his shirt and that’s definitely fresh blood on the angel’s blade.

Charlie jogs over to help him, but he doesn’t even glance up or acknowledge her presence. His expression is vacant, and he seems to be moving more by rote than by any sort of tactics. Fucking hell, but he sure picks his moments.

Charlie helps him drive the angel into the trap, then clicks her fingers in front of his eyes to get his attention before the other one carves him into two pieces. He blinks, shakes his head, and suddenly Dean is back in the room. Field. Whatever.

He yells out some fancy Latin sounding words, and all the angels flinch and clutch at their ears. He carries on though, and one by one, blinking swirls of light are cast out of their vessels and up into the sky.

“Hannah’s problem now.” Dean says, spitting blood onto the ground.

“We need to get you to a hospital, Dean.”

“I’m fine. Come on, grab your crap and let’s get back to the motel.”

Charlie grits her teeth, but she does as she’s told. Grudgingly.


	32. Epic Boredom

Castiel, ex-angel of the Lord, co-thwarter of the apocalypse, bringer of doom to all those who cross him, one time malevolent god and accidental unleasher of the Leviathan, is bored. And not casual bored. Not woe-is-me-for-none-of-the-things-that-used-to-entertain-me-are-working-at-the-moment-please-divert-me bored.

Total boredom. The sort that starts as a thick, heavy ache in your chest and builds up and up, until you start to think that anything that alleviates it must be a good thing. It’s the sort of boredom that leads to acts of self-destruction minor and major. The sort of boredom that ruins relationships for the sake of it and starts wars for something to do. Epic, gargantuan boredom.

The sort of boredom that is dangerous for normal people, never mind the people for whom boredom is the most dangerous thing, their worst enemy. Recovering addicts.

He has nothing to focus on except the now familiar buzzing needwant in his veins, the throbbing pain in his back and the itchiness deep in his bones. He finds himself scratching at his skin to try and burrow through and alleviate it, comes away with bloody fingers that he doesn’t even notice until he glances down and flinches.

Sam knocks on his door and Cas almost cries with relief at the promise of some kind of stimulation.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Sam.” He sounds pathetically grateful, even to his own ears.

“You okay?” Sam frowns.

“Yes, fine, as much as I can be.”

Cas doesn’t want to drive him away by whining, because then he’ll be left alone again, with only his thoughts for company. He passed millennia like that once, but it’s something that is beyond him now.

“I just wanted to see if it’s okay if I checked your wounds?” Sam asks.

“Of course.” Cas nods, tries to fold his hands out of sight.

Of course though, this movement catches Sam’s eye and he strides over to the bed, gently takes Cas’s hands and examines them.

“What happened?” He asks, all soft and gentle.

“I – I’m not sure. I think I was trying to stop the itching. I didn’t even notice until afterwards.”

Sam places Cas’s hands gently back on his lap, runs a hand through his own hair.

“I can get you some gloves? Not very dignified, but better than scratching holes in your skin.”

Cas shrugs. What does it matter? He doesn’t even have enough impulse control to stop himself scratching his skin until he bleeds. How on earth is he going to stay clean and sober once he’s let out of these cuffs?

“Well, I’ll leave some by your bed in case you change your mind.” Sam says patiently, guiltily.

Sam is still wrestling with his actions of the past few months – he was justified, he knows that. All the evidence pointed one way. But he was wrong – he was tricked, just as Cas’s captor intended. And he’s going to have to tell that to Cas eventually, but he’s putting it off for now, for as long as possible.

Cas doesn’t need someone honest right now, someone who doubted him. He needs someone that he can trust and rely on – or at least someone he thinks he can.

Sam can’t tell Cas that he’d given up on him, not now. It wouldn’t help anyone. And that’s what he’s going to keep on telling himself.

“It’s been a while since you had a shower, and I can’t imagine that feels great. So, I was thinking you could do that. If you promise to be good.”

Cas hadn’t really noticed it, not on top of all of the other unpleasant sensations running amok under his skin, but now that Sam mentions it, he does feel gross. Clammy dried sweat everywhere, what’s probably dried vomit on his cheek and his scalp is itchy and his hair lank and greasy.

“I’d love a shower.” He rasps. “I’d also like to use an actual toilet, instead of a bucket.”

Sam’s guilty flinch makes Cas regret his words. They hadn’t been a barb, just a statement of fact.

“I’m sorry about the bucket but—”

“You had other priorities.” Cas finishes for him.

“Yeah. So, uh, hold still.”

Sam gets the key out of his pocket, unlocks Cas’s wrist, massages the raw flesh tenderly. He lets go with a troubled expression.

“I’m sorry about this.” Sam says, and Cas doesn’t think he’s just talking about the cuff.

Cas doesn’t say anything, swings his feet around to the edge of the bed, takes a few deep breaths and stands, unaided, for the first time in a long while.

He manages it, just, wobbles a bit and would have toppled back on the bed, if not for Sam’s arm around his waist, supporting him, half holding him upright.

“Easy.”

“I guess a shower is out of the question, then.” Cas tries not to sound as disappointed as he feels.

“Not entirely. You could sit down, the shower heads are adjustable – or I could run you a bath?”

“Bath sounds okay.”

It sounds more appealing than sitting on the floor and being pummelled by water from a great height, or even having Sam in the shower with him, helping and washing him. It shouldn’t be embarrassing – Sam has already seen far more, and far worse, of Cas’s body than he should have – but somehow, it just is.

 

*

 

When Cas dies, if he somehow manages to trick his way back into heaven, this will be one of the memories he cycles endlessly through.

Humanity might have got a whole host of things wrong, but baths are not one of them.

It’s a mostly perfect memory. Only one, well, okay, two little snags. But that’s got to be a record as far as it goes with recent memories.

Cas sits on the floor while Sam turns on the water, puts in the plug, fiddles with temperatures and other things Cas isn’t really paying attention to. He’s too busy enjoying being somewhere that isn’t the bed. Not that the bed is uncomfortable or anything, because it’s not, but he’s fucking sick of it. He sick of pretty much everything in that room. Himself especially.

When Sam is content with the heat of the water coming out of the taps, he turns to Cas, says somewhat awkwardly, “I’m going to need you to undress.”

“Is it ready?”

“No, but I need to check your wounds. Also, I wanna give you a onceover with the shower too. Baths are only nice if you’re already mostly clean – otherwise you’re just sitting in your own dirt, y’know.”

“Why don’t I just shower, then?”

“Because baths are nice, Cas. You deserve nice.”

Cas doesn’t snort, but it takes a lot of effort on his part.

He undresses, lets Sam lead him over to the cubicle and sits on the floor while the worst of the grime is sluiced off him. He wouldn’t describe it as pleasant, exactly, but neither is it horrendous. Just on the right side of neutral, and it’s depressing how positive a statement that has become in his life.

Sam turns off the shower and vanishes for a few moments, comes back with something that looks suspiciously like a garbage bag and some duct tape.

“Disposing of my body?”

Sam flushes with something that looks almost like guilt, which, hmm. Cas is going to need to investigate that at some point in the near future.

“The wounds on your back are pretty nasty – I wanna try and keep them as dry as possible during your bath.”

“And you’re doing that with…?”

“Waterproofing materials.”

Cas nods slowly.

“You could use those, or you could use the box of Tegaderm I bought off the internet after I fell.”

“Tega-what?”

“Medical grade adhesive wound pads.”

“Which you have because…?” Sam sounds mystified.

And of course he does. He grew up stitching wounds with dental floss and washing pills down with whiskey chasers. He probably doesn’t even know what the word sterile means.

“Because we’ve all literally been to hell and back, and it would be embarrassing for one of us to die of septicaemia.”

Sam will concede him that point, and he’s not even annoyed at the snark. It’s actually really fucking nice to see bits of the real Cas shining back through.

“Okay smartass. Where will I find them?”

“Bedroom.” Sam notices the neutral phrasing. Not our bedroom, not mine and Dean’s room. Just bedroom. “I think D— I think the box was being used as an additional bedside table.”

 

*

 

The box is providing bedside table services for precisely one item – a nearly empty bottle of lube. Which, wow, thanks guys. Sam nudges it onto the floor with his foot – because he knows when that shit gets used and it is not with clean hands, so no thanks – and opens the cardboard box, taking extra special care to touch as little as fucking possible of it.

He flips through the contents, and wow, talk about prepared. There’s sizing ranging from tiny to huge, with every size in between. He selects two large pads – big enough to cover one wing each, and then grabs a load of the smaller ones too. Cas is a fucking mess and just because his wings are the big wound, doesn’t mean they’re the only ones that’ll need covering.

He doesn’t sprint back to the bathroom – because even if Cas wanted to escape, he’s in no fucking state to – but he does speed walk.

“You found them.” Cas observes as Sam bursts back into the room.

“Yeah. And dude, why didn’t you tell me about these earlier? I could’ve had you sterile from the start.”

Cas shrugs.

“I didn’t care.”

Sam grimaces, and it’s almost enough to make Cas regret his thoughtless words. He’s being honest, though. He didn’t fucking care. He’s still doesn’t, he’s just trying to give the appearance to the contrary.

Sam steels himself, sits on the floor behind Cas and sets about applying the “wound film” to his worst areas. Apt name, as it does look like cling film edged with masking tape, but what does Sam know. He isn’t a doctor. Neither is Cas, so hopefully he did his research and hasn’t just been royally fleeced.

Sam does the smaller ones first, a deep gash here by his ribs, an ugly looking gouge on his ankle. He builds up to the big two, still has a little trouble looking at them. He’s just sticking on the first one when Cas’s voice pipes up, wary and slow.

“The wounds on my back…they’re bad, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.” Sam admits.

“They feel deeper than everything else.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty nasty. Not infected though, thanks for small miracles.”

“Can I see them?”

Sam’s lighting quick under pressure, and he’s fucking grateful for it.

“Mirrors are all fogged from the steam. You can look later, after your bath.” When hopefully you’ll have forgotten all about it and we can just drain that away with the dirty water.

Yeah, likely.

“Okay.” Cas acquiesces surprisingly easily. “Is the bath ready yet?”

Sam checks the temperature of the water with his elbow, and okay, Cas isn’t a baby, but he’s fragile and the last thing he needs is a fucking burn or something. It seems fine, so he turns off the taps.

“Seems okay. You can always add more hot or cold if it’s not to your liking.”

“Thank you.”

“Um, you, uh, want a hand getting in?”

“I’d like to try for myself first.”

“’Course.”

Cas stands unsteadily, totters to the tub and grabs onto the edge. It’s a wide rimmed tub with a shelf built into the wall next to it, so there’s plenty to grip onto, but even so, he can’t seem to haul himself into the water.

“It’s not weakness to ask for help, Cas.”

“What about this isn’t weakness?” Cas spits, suddenly all venom. “The bit where I can’t stand by myself, or maybe the bit where you’re keeping me chained to the wall because you can’t trust me not to run off in search of a hit?”

“Okay.” Sam says. “Maybe it is weakness. Maybe at the present moment in time you’re physically weak. So fucking what? You spent three months being forcibly shot up and barely fed. No-one expects you to be running goddamn marathons. I don’t care, neither does Dean, we just want to help you.”

And Cas doesn’t flinch at Dean’s name, because with all those other bits of himself that are coming back, so is his pride. He’s physically pathetic, doesn’t mean he has to be the same way mentally, doesn’t mean he has to have a breakdown every time he thinks about the shit he’s done and the consequences. You built yourself a bed of dripping needles and spite, now fucking lie down and face the puncture wounds.

Cas doesn’t flinch, but he does take on this unusual stillness. The ability to completely quell himself is one of the few things that gives away that he hasn’t always been human. It happens every time he tries to hide what he’s feeling – he just, stops. Cas’s emotions are all or nothing. Open book, or literal robot, he still hasn’t quite got the hang of nuance.

 “I _want_ to help you, Cas. This isn’t a burden. I’m not doing it because I feel like I have to.”

Cas’s shoulders tense up and it might look like a bad sign, but it’s not. Gradually he settles back down, relaxes into a semblance of humanity.

“I would appreciate your help please, Sam.”

That was the first snag.

The second comes shortly afterwards.

Sam lifts him carefully up, and somehow it feels less humiliating than he thought he would, and lowers him gently into the water.

And it feels good. He feels warm – really truly warm, not burning up with fever or sweating out the drugs. Warm and safe and cocooned.

And even though the water is stinging gently at wounds he didn’t even know he had, he feels relaxed for the first time since he was taken. He lies there for a moment, eyes closed, revelling in the way the buzzing itching need has simmered down to a gentle niggle in the back of his head, how his limbs don’t feel heavy, how his bones don’t ache.

And then he opens his eyes. Big mistake. He looks down at his body, and it’s not him.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he hasn’t really seen himself, apart from maybe his bony arms and thin fingers, not since he was rescued.

Intellectually, he knows he’s emaciated, knows he’s barely more than a skeleton. That’s still not who he pictures when he thinks of himself. There’s always still something there, despite the ill-treatment of his body. In his own head, he still looks like a person.

Being confronted with the actual visible evidence of it, he can’t take it.

He’s shaking and he doesn’t know how to stop, cold again despite the water. He can’t stop looking at the clearly defined lines of his ribs, his concave stomach. That can’t be a human being. That’s just skin coloured paint sprayed over a skeleton.

“Cas? Cas! What’s the matter?”

Sam thinks it’s too hot, or that Cas is having an allergic reaction or something. “That’s not _me._ ” Cas hisses through clenched teeth.

And Sam, beautiful, brilliant Sam clocks it immediately. He grabs a bottle of bubble bath and a bath bomb from the ledge – Charlie’s maybe, or Dean’s (he’d never admit it, but he’s fond of little luxuries like that).

Sam upends half the bottle into the bath, followed by the bomb, swirls them around with his hands until there’s a healthy layer of bubbles and magenta water covering Cas’s cadaverous body. It hadn’t occurred to him that Cas would react so badly – he’s seen Cas’s naked form, he’s had time, not to get used to it, but to at least not to flinch away from it.

He supposes Cas has been draped in baggy tops and oversized shirts, has understood the weakness of his body, but not seen the true devastation of it. He’ll be used to his thin fingers and barely there wrists; not so everything else.

For a smart man, Sam spends a lot of time castigating himself for being stupid, even when that’s not what he’s doing. Even when what he’s doing is just being human, and fallible with it.

“Still think I’m not pathetic?” Cas asks, bitterly, in lieu of the thank you he so desperately means.

“Yes.” Sam tells him matter of factly, setting the bottle of bubbles down on the ledge, moving the shampoo and conditioner so that they’re within Cas’s reach. “I’m gonna leave you be now, let you relax, but I’ll be just outside if you need me. Don’t forget to clean behind your ears.”

Cas nods, sinking down so that only his eyes and his shaggy mess of hair is visible over the waterline. Sam laughs, whips out his phone and takes a photo. Cas frowns at him, which only serves to make it better.

He shuts the door behind him, emails the pictures to Charlie without a caption.

 

*

 

Cas had been hoping Sam would stay with him, but of course not. Now he’s on his own and even the warm almost bliss he’s wrapped up in can’t stop his thoughts from racing and careering out of his control. He counts, one, two, three, four, five, six, tries to fill his head with harmless repetition and simple tasks.

He reaches for the shampoo – might as well get the process started, do something, when he realises that he’s dripping all over something.

A book.

He looks around furtively. Sam mustn’t have noticed it, he’d never have left it if he did. Or, or maybe he did, maybe it’s there deliberately, a trust trap.

Cas doesn’t care. He needs that book, needs to fill his head with words and thoughts that aren’t his own.

He scoots up the tub, wipes his hands on the side to take off the excess moisture and picks up the book.

It’s a paperback, barely flicked through. White-ish cover with a wolf’s yellow eyes staring vividly back at him and a gold lettered title: _The Sight_.

Cas doesn’t read the blurb, doesn’t need to. He dimly remembers this from Metatron’s pop culture injection. He could briefly outline the plot for you, but he hasn’t held onto much of the detail. It’ll be the human equivalent of rereading a book you first read during your childhood, and he’s already burning up with anticipation to start.

He opens it up, turns to the first page.

_In the beginning was a castle high on a craggy precipice._

 

*

 

Sam suddenly realises that it’s been a long while since he heard from Cas. He’d been sitting outside the door with a book – not _his_ book, because he can’t find that for love nor fucking money – guarding, but not guarding. He checks his watch. Over an hour. That’s nothing compared to some of the baths Dean has had – he came late to the concept of bath time, but like everyone with something they were long denied, he’s gorged himself on it – but Cas is weak and tires easily and Sam hopes he hasn’t fallen asleep, slipped under the surface and drowned.

Sam raps on the doorframe, waits, receives no answer.

Okay, not great.

“Cas?” He calls.

Still nothing.

He gives up on trying to let Cas keep some semblance of privacy and bursts into the room.

Cas is the sort of still that only someone who’s just been hiding evidence of wrongdoing can achieve.

“What were you doing?” Sam asks harshly, because he was worried, but no, Cas has just been getting up to something suspicious.

“Nothing.” Cas replies in a stubborn, daring tone that directly contradicts his words.

“Nice.” Sam snorts.

He looks around, notices his book on the floor next to the bath where Cas had dropped it in a panic. It’s damp.

“You!” Sam exclaims.

“You can’t blame me for wanting a distraction.” Cas snarls.

Sam frowns at him, unsure why he’s taking such a venomous tone.

“Chill out. I’d just been wandering where it was.”

Cas starts to reply, pulls himself back and examines Sam’s words.

“You aren’t angry at me for reading?”

“Uh, no?” Now Sam just sounds bemused.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed books.”

“What?”

“I overheard you telling Charlie on the phone.”

Sam laughs.

“Cas, that was when you didn’t think I was real. I didn’t want to exacerbate things – or have you try and brain me with _Game of Thrones_ or something. Of course you can have books.”

“Oh.”

“In fact, while you’re finishing up here I’ll go grab you a box full, store ‘em in your room so you can pick.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

Cas isn’t crying. He’s in the bath, you get water on your face when you’re in the bath.

 

*

 

Sam leaves Cas alone to finally shampoo and conditioner himself, bustles through the bunker and grabs at any book he sees, tips them into a box and dumps it in Cas’s room. It’s an eclectic mix of non-fiction, fiction, even a couple of cook books – just in case that helps to spur Cas’s appetite on a little bit.

Stranger things have happened.


	33. This isn't Giving Up, This is Letting Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Rise Against song, _[This is Letting Go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgJFeRDNOa0)_

Dean is furious with everyone, but especially himself. Hannah zapped off before she could heal his wounds, so he’s sporting some decent bruises, possibly a cracked rib as well, but it’s not enough – he wants to get back out there and carry on fighting until he’s as fucking destroyed on the outside as he is internally.

And it’s not just self-destructive impulses riding his ass. He’s a seething, rattling ball of unchannelled anger and he needs some way to expend it all. He has three fall-backs for occasions like this: fight it out, fuck it out, or drown it with whiskey.

He can’t do the first, he won’t do the second – because Cas might hate his guts but Dean still loves him and he can’t, he won’t cheat on him, not while it’s all still this fresh and raw. He’s many and terrible things, but he’s not that.

Which leaves the third option.

He leaves while Charlie’s in the shower, doesn’t even bother with a dive bar this time. He cuts out the middle fucker and buys two bottles of illegal absinthe from under the counter of a sketchy looking liquor store. The guy hands it over and he squints suspiciously at the Mexican label, opens one up and sniffs. It smells like liquorice and it’s making his eyes water just being near it. Excellent.

He wanders around for a bit after that, ends up by a river. He sits on the edge, feet dangling over the bank, booted toes just grazing the waterline. He pops one of the bottles open and takes a long, deep pull.

It tastes fucking gross, but maybe that’s half the point. It burns as it goes down, and as it tries to come straight back up again too. He tries to hold it in, fails, spits a liquorice and bile flavoured mouthful into the water.

The next gulp he takes is smaller, and it stays down – which is a relief, because he can’t be bothered to go and get something else. All he wants to do is sit here and drink until he passes out – and whether he falls forwards or backwards, well, that’s up to fate.

There isn’t a part of this that isn’t pathetic, but that’s fine, ‘cause he’s pathetic. He couldn’t stop Cas being taken, couldn’t find him in time to stop all this crap happening, and now he can’t even hunt the son of a bitch who did it. Hunting is supposed to be what he’s good at, but instead what happens? Dean gets wounded, the angel gets away and Charlie and Hannah nearly fucking die.

He should fill his pockets with rocks and jump into that fucking river, but he won’t, because he’s pathetic and he knows what comes after – hell, the black eyes, all that crap. And he’s too much of a pissbaby to go through all that again by choice, so instead he’s gonna stay clinging onto his mortal coil, miserable, dejected and, word of the day, pathetic, until something bigger and badder than he is – a monster, or liver failure, or that inevitable second heart attack, kicks him off it once again.

He isn’t going to try and kill himself. But, well, if death comes knocking, he isn’t in much of a state to fight back.

He’s about three quarters of the way down the bottle when his phone starts ringing. Charlie. He answers, in case it’s a lead or something , even though there’s jackshit he could do in this condition.

“Dean. You okay?”

“None of your business.”

He can almost see her rolling her eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Stuff.”

“Where are you – I’ll come get you.”

“Nah. I’m good.” He slurs.

“Are you drunk?”

“Yup.”

“Even after – what about Cahor?”

“S’the point?”

“For fuck’s sake.” And now she sound pissed. “I’m coming to get you.”

Dean wishes her a slurred good luck and cuts the call, feeling prickly and annoyed. All he wants to do is fucking drink in peace.

His phone starts to ring again and he frowns at it. One of Sam’s burners. Great, so she’s got him on the case too.

He swipes across the little green icon, lifts the phone so the mike is right by his lips.

“Go fuck yourself.”

He aims for coldly furious, thinks he probably just sounds broken and desperate with the way his voice cracks on the middle word, but fuck it, it’ll get the point across.

 

*

 

Cas shampoos his hair and he can’t suppress a little moan at the sensation of his fingers massaging his scalp, finally getting rid of that gross, itchy feeling he’d had to become accustomed to. There are so many small sensations that he’d previously been taking for granted, and now never will again. Not that that makes any of this worth it, because it fucking doesn’t, and if anyone tries to tell him that, he’ll snap their fucking spine.

Okay, he’ll ask Sam to snap their fucking spine.

He forgets for a second, wonders what it’d be like if it were Dean’s hands carding through his hair instead of his own. And now that the thought has taken root he can’t get rid of it, every touch of his own hands transplants itself to something else, something he suddenly wants more than anything else.

God, he fucking misses him.

He finishes, shampooed and conditioned, skin scrubbed fresh pink and raw, and then he makes a snap decision, shouts for Sam.

Sam bustles in, all nervous energy like he doesn’t know what he expects, he just knows it won’t be good. Cas doesn’t know this – too caught up in his current plan – but the reason Sam is tense is because he’s remembering an earlier conversation, about mirrors and wounds, and he’s hoping he’ll be spared the inevitable shitstorm that’s going to raise. It’ll set Cas off, or set him back. Do something bad, anyway.

“Can you help me get out?”

Sam nods, picks him carefully up and sets him down on the floor. The cold is unpleasant, but he only has to endure it for a moment before Sam is wrapping him in a towel.

“You dry yourself, I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

Cas nods, waits until the door is shut, and then draws out the phone he’s just pickpocketed from Sam.

Sam forgets that he’s wily, that just because he’s weak doesn’t mean he isn’t cunning. That he was trained by Dean.

Cas dials the number from memory. He pauses over the call button for a moment – doesn’t even know what he wants to say. He just needs to hear Dean’s voice, if Dean will even answer it.

He just needs to hear Dean’s voice, but he’s also hoping, even if he tells himself that he isn’t. He wants Dean to answer the phone, he wants to apologise, and he wants some slight reassurance that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t irreparable.

He presses call, listens to the dialling tone. It rings once, twice, and then Dean answers. There’s a moment of rough, heavy breathing, like he’s steeling himself up to say something. Cas tries to force a hello out, but it sticks in his throat.

Dean beats him to it, slurs three words.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The line goes dead.

Cas thinks vaguely that he should be feeling something cataclysmic right about now – all the air being punched out of him, the stab of heartbreak or the sucking pull of abject despair.

Instead there’s nothing. He wonders if he’s passed his body’s threshold for trauma. If this is it, pile it all on and he’ll feel nothing more. That doesn’t sound like such a bad deal, actually. He should be so lucky.

 

*

 

Sam knows there’s something wrong the moment he steps through the bathroom door. The whole atmosphere of the place has shifted, from vaguely suspicious content, to a thick, heavy tension.

Cas’s emotions have a way of doing that, bleeding out of him and suffusing the room in general. Sam has always meant to ask him about it, whether it’s some angelic knockback, or if it’s just because he’s not used to having them, doesn’t have the same ability to keep them inside as people who’re born with these inconvenient feelings do.

Regardless, something has clearly happened while Sam was gone. And he doesn’t need the bad atmosphere to tell him that. Cas’s thousand yard stare does that all by itself.

And then Sam spots the phone against his ear, swears, pats himself down to confirm that yes, the little fucking shit pickpocketed his fucking phone. He dashes over, dropping Cas’s clean sweats, kneels on the floor in front of him and checks his eyes. Glassy, but not with drugs. He’s not sure whether that’s a relief or not.

Sam snaps his fingers in front of Cas’s eyes and he blinks, but he doesn’t jerk back to focus, because he wasn’t ever really out of focus, Sam realises. He’s not absent, he’s just deliberately blank, staring balefully at the wall.

“Cas?” Sam asks. “What happened?”

He doesn’t get an answer, but he can formulate a rough guess.

Because this is his life now, he takes the phone out of Cas’s hand, grabs hold of his skinny wrists and pulls him upright. Cas goes with it, moving as directed, but not doing anything else.

Sam dresses him, helps him back into the bedroom, sets him down on the bed, and then he dithers. The cuff is sitting there, attached to the bedframe, accusatory. It’s not like Cas is going to be able to escape, he can barely stand unaided, and yet.

This is Cas, the guy who can do anything he wants to, when he puts his formidable mind to it. Sam wouldn’t put it past him to fucking crawl out of the bunker while he was asleep, if the whim took him.

He snaps the cuff back on, feeling like the worst person in the entire fucking world. Cas just stares at him as he does it, and he feels so fucking guilty.

Sam goes back to the bathroom, picks up his still damp copy of _The Sight_ and brings it over, sets it on Cas’s bed.

“You should finish it.”

That gets a reaction. A half smile, barely there.

“Thank you, Sam.”

 

*

 

Sam brings up the call menu on his phone. He doesn’t need to check, but he still fucking does it anyway. There’s only one person he knows who can fuck Cas up like that. He hits redial.

“What did you—”

“I _just_ told you to fuck off.” Dean groans.

And he’s drunk, great. Sam doesn’t know why he bothers to be fucking surprised.

“No. You just told _Cas_ to fuck off.”

That gets a reaction.

“Oh.” Soft and a little bewildered.

“Yeah.”

“Well, ‘m sure he doesn’t care.”

Sam can’t help the snort.

“Yeah, he doesn’t care so much he’s fucking PTSD staring at the wall.”

Dean makes a noise that could be a laugh or a sob. He’s not even sure himself anymore.

“Yeah, very funny.”

“I’m not fucking joking, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, are we done here? ‘Cause I got a bottle plus of absinthe left to drink.”

“Dean, what the fuck—”

Dean hangs up, chucks his phone into the river. Enough of that, thanks.

 

*

 

He hears the guy approach from a half fucking mile back, doing that sneaky little run-walk that is just far too obvious for a trained hunter of, um, some years. Okay. Wow. He knows how old he is, it’s just slipped his mind for a bit, but that’s fine, because. Um. He had a point. Oh yeah, sneaky mcfuckbasket trying to get the jump on him.

Dean waits until his assailant is right behind him, springs upwards and grabs the guy in a headlock.

Except he doesn’t.

That’s what he intends to do. Instead he stumbles, pitches backwards and lands on his ass. His swirling stomach makes itself known and he leans to the side, hurls up mostly absinthe and stomach acid. Okay, maybe he should have eaten, because shit is spinning and he feels like crap. Just wants to lie down.

“Gimme your phone and wallet.” His attacker snarls.

A mugger. Ha. And there he was thinking he was about to be fucking demon chow.

Actually, he should check.

“Christo.” Dean slurs.

“I said—”

“I fuckin’ heard what you said.”

“I’ll slit your throat.”

Dean laughs, and the motion brings another heave.

“You think this is fucking funny, do ya, prick?”

The guy surges forwards, lands a powerful kick on Dean’s ribs.

Dean throws up again, on his attacker’s shoes, and for some reason that _really_ seems to piss him off.

“I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!”

He launches a volley of kicks into Dean’s chest, which, y’know, doesn’t help the throwing up situation any. And wow, even through the warm, soft haze of absinthe, he can feel that. He tries to crawl away, but that just eggs the guy one. He stamps on Dean’s hand, kicks him in the head.

Everything’s fuzzy after that. Fuzzier.

 

*

 

The fucking drunk passes out on him and suddenly Tar is worried. Kicking the shit outta some drunk vomsack yeah, mugging him, yeah. Murder, that ain’t what he’s about. No-one’ll give a shit if some drunk out of town asshole rolls up at the copshop whining about his brand new iPhone. They gonna give a shit if he turns up dead.

He spits on the guy just for good measure, lifts his wallet from his inside pocket. Tar doesn’t need the money, he’s fucking loaded – rich young kid, from a rich family – it’s about the trophy. And this’ll be a fucking great story to tell the guys at school.

 

*

 

Charlie is still running a GPS trace on Dean’s phone – he’s gotten fucking sneaky on her and she doesn’t like it, it used to take thirty seconds to track him, this trace has been running for fucking ages – when there’s a pounding at the door.

She looks through the peephole.

It’s Dean, or what’s left of him.

She opens the door. Dean literally falls inside, apparently supported only by the door he was leaning on. He’s moaning something incomprehensible and his face is swollen. 

Charlie is fucking furious, but now is not the time for a lecture. Now is the time to summon Hannah and get him healed so she can really fucking scream.

Hannah appears, with her typical constipated expression.

“What?”

“I need you to heal Dean.”

She takes one look at him, shakes her head.

“His injuries aren’t fatal. Unfortunately.”

“Hannah—”

“I didn’t give you my summoning name so that you could treat me as Dean’s personal doctor. He didn’t get injured in the hunt, this is just wilful self-destruction.”

“Yeah, but he can’t help us if—”

“He can stay like this until you have another lead.”

“Hannah—”

“If I heal him, he’ll just go blundering in unaided again, blow yet another chance. This way, if something comes up, I know I’ll be the first person either of you contact.”

Stone. Cold.

“I promi—”

Charlie doesn’t finish her sentence, because what’s the point talking to fucking empty air. The sneaky angelic bitch must have been texting behind her back, because suddenly she’s gone, summoned away.

 

*

 

Charlie dumps Dean on the bed, is about to turn away and settle herself on her own, when she hears a low mumble.

“’M sorry Cas, s’fucked up. S’my fault.”

“Dean?”

He opens one puffed up eye, stares at her and whispers something she doesn’t hear. She sighs, comes over and sits on the floor, legs splayed out on the ground, head close enough to Dean’s that she can hear him talk, but she doesn’t fucking have to look at him. She’s torn between sympathy and rage, doesn’t know where she’s going to fall.

“He doesn’ love me, Charlie. S’gone. S’allgone. An’ imma dothis f’rim an’then I’m gone.” He takes a deep, rattling breath, and Charlie’s worried for his lungs, but Hannah said he wasn’t actually that badly hurt, kinda. “He’s so small Charliee, and I c-c-c-c-c-could see the marks fr’the needle. S’my fault. S’my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Dean.” She sighs, but he doesn’t reply. She hauls herself to her feet, makes herself look at him. His eyes are closed, flat out drunk and asleep. Huh.

 

*

 

“Hey, um. Hi Dorothy.”

“Charlie?”

“Got it in one.” She laughs nervously.

“I thought we agreed to give it some distance?”

Charlie cringes. She doesn’t need reminding about what was said. She didn’t agree to any of that because she wanted to. She agreed, because Dorothy deserved better than Charlie with one foot in Oz, one foot in the real world – and god, she’s still fucking doing it. A home in two worlds is doable – but when you can’t help but think of one of them as the “real world,” the one that your girlfriend doesn’t live in, well, there’s the problem.

The world that she was born in, it might be shit in a lot of ways, but so is Oz – and her world still has a hold on her. She feels the tug every time she crosses into Oz – could always sense, like some sort of psychic pull – the distance and direction of the nearest portal home.

She wonders if it’s like in Phillip Pullman’s stories – can you only thrive for so long in someone else’s world before you start to crumble?

Except in the Dark Materials Trilogy they get a couple of decades. Charlie gets a couple of months.

Three months is the longest she’s pushed it, and it didn’t end that well. The feeling of being stretched so thin you could barely remember when you used to have a personality. Torn out of place and fraying with it.

And Dorothy didn’t understand. She’s a child of both worlds, feels equally at home in either. She just saw Charlie’s stubborn inability to give herself over to Oz as another thing in a long line of growing problems.

And how was Charlie supposed to explain, without forcing Dorothy to leave the world she loves, the world that needs her right now, to keep it together, keep it stable and not riven with civil war?

“Yeah, I know. I just, uh. I needed to hear a friendly female voice.”

Dorothy sighs.

“What’s up?”

“I’d, um, rather not talk about specifics. Just a friend going through some shit and I’m helping, but it’s taking a toll, y’know.”

Dorothy knows, of course she does.

“Winchesters?”

“How’d you guess?”

“They sucked you in, again.” She sounds tired, but not surprised. This is old, worn ground.

“You make them sound like quicksand or something.” Charlie tries to joke weakly.

“How many of their friends are still alive, Charlie?”

“Um…”

“Yeah.”

“Not what I called to talk about.”

“You want a distraction?”

“That’d be nice, yeah.”

“What do you wanna hear?”

“Um. Just tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Healing a realm on the brink of civil war.”

Charlie laughs, and Dorothy softens. There are still feelings there, it’s just, yeah. It doesn’t always work. Love isn’t always enough, as trite as it might be to say.

“Okay. So, after you left—”

 

*

 

Dean wakes up with the worst hangover he’s ever had. Usually it’s just the whole queasy stomach, banging headache deal. This one feels like it’s literally taken a hammer to his ribs. And one of his hands.

Okay, he’s not hungover. He’s just really fucking beaten up. Lovely. The last thing he remembers is sitting on the riverbank getting a call from Charlie. Stuff happened after that, but he’s fucked if he knows what.

He flails his unharmed hand, meets a glass of some kind and grasps it, brings it to his mouth and chugs it down. Not water. Something. Lemon-lime. Ah yes, that’s familiar. Gatorade, the universally acknowledged hangover cure for those who don’t have access to serious medical supplies.

He sits up, and wow, hello regret.

“You’re up.”

That’s Charlie’s voice.

“Mornin’”

“Fuck you, Dean.”

Okay, so, he did something last night. Bad, obviously. But then, what does he do these days that isn’t?

“What’s up your ass?”

Okay, wow, Dean. Well done. Good going. That won’t start a fight.

“What the fuck is the matter with you, Dean?”

He resorts to his default, flippancy in the face of a serious conversation.

“Aside from what I’m pretty sure is a cracked rib—”

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

Okay, she wants a fucking fight, she’s gonna get it.

“I’m taking this way fucking seriously.” He snaps.

“Yeah? So seriously you went out and got blind drunk? Beaten up?”

He flinches, but Charlie’s pretty sure it’s more because of her volume than her actual words.

“It’s a free country, I can do what I want.”

“Don’t you pull that bullshit on me, Dean. I’ve tried to help, I’ve tried to be sympathetic, but you know what, this isn’t fucking working and you need to sort your shit the fuck out.”

“What I need is for you to use your inside voice.” He groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“Take this seriously!”

“I am—”

“No. You’re not. Not this conversation, not even this hunt.”

That gets his attention, his head snaps up.

“Don’t you dare accuse me of not taking this hunt seriously.”

“Yeah? And if we’d had a lead while you were off passed out in a gutter getting the shit kicked out of you, what then?”

“Then I’d have been just as little fucking help as if I was sober!” He shouts, launching himself up off the bed and then recoiling at his own volume, the sudden movement. He flops back down, arm flung over his eyes.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Dean?”

“Twice.” He says, eyes still hidden. “Twice, I’ve gone against this angel and let him escape.”

He sits up and Charlie can see his cheeks are wet.

“So?” She asks.

“So I can’t fucking hack it.”

“So you’re giving up?”

“No—”

“Sounds an awful fucking lot like you’re giving up to me.”

“I wouldn’t do that—”

“You already have, Dean.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Literally, yeah. Not in any other way.”

“And what the fuck does that mean?” He tries for combative, but it’s hard when literally everything hurts.

“It means you’re drinking to cope, except you’re not fucking coping. It means you’re acting like Cas is dead, and not recovering in the bunker – which he is, because you got there in time and saved him.”

“I didn’t get there in time though. That’s the fucking point.”

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you got there in time.”

“He doesn’t think so.” Dean says quietly, and somehow that just pisses Charlie off even more.

“Newsflash, Dean. We all get our hearts broken, you’re not fucking special. Either drown your fucking sorrows, or do something about it. You can’t carry on doing half of one and the other – you’re gonna get someone killed.”

“So you want me to quit?”

“I want you to commit, one way or the other. Revenge or grief soaked alcoholism. You decide.”

“Yeah, well. I tried revenge and failed, so—”

“You know why you failed?”

“Because I’m a fucking waste of space?” He shoots back.

“Because you’ve been trying to do this on your _own_. Me and Hannah aren’t fucking lead weights around your ankles. We’re here to help, if you’d just fucking let us. We can do this, I promise you, if you just let us help.”

“Yeah?” He says, without bite or sarcasm. Charlie’s words have so much conviction behind them that he can almost feel himself believing her. There’s a reason hunters work in groups, and it’s because everything they fight is bigger and stronger and worse than they are. And Dean, he’s been trying to fight one of the worst all by himself. He isn’t this dumb, and Charlie’s right, he’s all over the place – no use to anyone. Especially Cas.

He examines that thought, and there with it come something else, something tricky. He wonders if maybe he’s been subconsciously sabotaging the hunt, trying to drag it out because of the decision he made – that once it’s over, he’s gone, out of Cas’s life forever. If the hunt never ends, well, there’s still a chance, still the illusion of potential. But he can’t think like that. He can’t, because that makes him the worst of the fucking worst. He’d have to be the most callous person on earth to think like that.

This isn’t supposed to be about Dean. It’s supposed to be about Cas, making sure he’s safe, providing him with the means to take his own revenge.

There are people who see Dean as this selfless, martyr type, but he knows they’re wrong. Hannah has the measure of him; she’s probably the only one who does. He does those things because he loves people, yeah, but it’s a selfish kind of love. The kind of love that won’t let people go, even if they need it. Suffocating, cloying, smothering love. He’s so desperate to keep people in his orbit, staying with him, loving him back, that he binds them to him with sacrifice and pain. It’s how he shows people he loves them. It’s how he ties them down.

You can’t leave me because I saved your life. You can’t leave me because I gave up everything for you. You can’t leave me because I love you. You can’t leave me, please…

He’s not used to letting go.

He’s going to do it though, for Cas. Because Cas has made his feelings pretty fucking clear. And this one last act won’t be a leash. It’ll be a gift. Thank you, and goodbye.

 

*

 

Dean looks up at Charlie and her words die in her throat. She’d been about to say something like, good, but I’m making you a promise, and you need to make me one in return, ‘kay – no more booze, no more checking out or any of that crap.

But she doesn’t say any of it, because Dean is looking at her with such pure certainty, looking at her in a way she’s never seen, but has read about in the _Supernatural_ books. It’s a look that’s been absent from his face for months. The look he gets when he’s out hunting something big and something evil. Something that’s personally offended him, and is really going to fucking pay for it.

She wanted commitment, thought she’d have to fight and claw and scrape to drag him out of his funk. Turns out she underestimated him. Turns out he’s done it all by himself.

“That’s more like it.” She says.

He nods, winces as the movement jolts his headache, but the look stays firmly on his face.

“You’re right,” he says through gritted teeth. “I wasn’t all there. I was letting my personal shit get in the way – and I know better than that. My dad raised me better than that.” Not better, Charlie thinks, but doesn’t say. That’s not a lesson you should have had to learn. “Consider me in, properly now. No more whining, no more boozing. No more self-sabotage. We’re doing this, and we’re doing it right.”

His hand still trembles, but Charlie thinks that maybe it’s a little less.

“Together.” She says.

“Yeah.” He agrees. “And, uh, speaking of together – can we maybe summon Hannah here to unbeat me the fuck up?”

“No.”

He does a little surprised head jerk, winces. Charlie realises she should probably clarify. She has a flare for the dramatic and she’s been having a stressful few weeks. So sue her.

“I summoned her while you were out. She was pretty pissed, said she wouldn’t heal you until we got a lead ‘cause she didn’t want you running off on your own again.”

Charlie leaves out the part about Hannah wanting Dean to suffer, because more tension between the two of them is the LAST thing anyone needs right now.

“Shit.”

“I know you two don’t like each other, but she’s just—”

“Doing what she thinks is best. Yeah, I get it, don’t worry.” He rubs at his eyes. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Not irreparably.” Charlie says with a shrug.

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

“What, you want me to lie to you? You’ve been doing enough of that for yourself, Dean. Look, you fucked up, yeah, but we can fix it. Doesn’t make it fine, but it makes it okay.”

“Since when did you become a philosopher?”

“Since I watch way too much shitty TV.”

He smiles, even though it hurts his face, even though he’s still a fucking wreck inside. He spent years being all front while his insides fell apart. He can pull it off one more time.

The urge for a drink – hair of the dog, anaesthesia – rises up like bile in his throat and he forces himself to swallow it down, suppress it and not act.

Cas is coming down off fucking junk miles away in Kansas, the least Dean can do is stop fucking drinking for long enough to sort him out.

“So, what’s the plan?” He asks Charlie, because distraction is good.

“Well I’ve got a few things going – it’s just a matter of waiting.”

“Hit me.”

He’s showing interest again, that’s good.

“’Kay. Well I’m doing some super fucking illegal blanket security monitoring, and if I thought you’d understand I’d babble about how amazing it is that I can even do it, never mind do it and not get caught, but you wouldn’t understand, so it’d be fucking wasted on you.”

“Sweet. So, in dumb, old people terms?”

“Facial recognition running through all the security feeds I can get my hands on – his face pops up near a camera, we’ll know about it.”

“That’s some cool shit.”

“Uh-huh. And to top it off, I’ve put out a BOLO—”

“Woah. No, Charlie. That’s how people get killed.”

“Oh ye of little faith. They’ve got his description and a warning about biological weapons, and to under no circumstances engage. Because man, this guy is twitchy and volatile, and at the first sign of trouble he’ll drop a can of smallpox on the town that’ll wipe the population out quick sharp.”

“Jesus, you’re good.”

“Uh-huh. They have a CDC consultant to phone, aka me, and a warning that if anyone starts a panic, he’ll do it for shits and giggles, and then we’ll find out whose fault it was and hand them over to our pet scientists to animal test possible cures on.”

“Okay, that is brilliant, brilliant, but evil.”

“Yup.”

“So, anything I need to do in the meantime?”

“Nah. The camera thing is set to run on auto, any hint of him and we’ll know. For now I think it’s just preparing for the big showdown – we’re running high and dry on weapons, and your trap sheet is in pieces.”

“So re-arm, and wait.”

“Pretty much.”

“Cool. I actually have an idea for a trap, but we’re gonna need some weird shit, tarps, weights, and a net gun.”

Charlie’s eyebrows rise practically off her face.

“How about we keep it simple – bullets first, net guns later. I don’t even know where you’d go to get one of those...”

Dean rolls his eyes, this isn’t his first hunt, he knows you gotta get the basics first.

“I don’t need a net gun, per se. I just need a home improvement store and a credit card. DIY is less reliable, but it works.”

He feels the familiar little thrill in his stomach, of a plan being formed and a hunt about to start. And he feels guilty for that, but he’s Dean Winchester. He feels guilty for fucking everything, makes no difference whether it’s justified or not.


	34. The God of Small Mercies and Large Tortures

Cas wakes up with a throbbing headache and a throbbing something else too.

By which he means he has a boner the size of the Chrysler building. 

There’s no point trying to deal with the first problem – if he asks Sam for painkillers all he’s going to get is some ibuprofen, and he’s only allowed a certain amount of those a day. He wants to save them for when they’re needed.

He’s going to have to deal with his headache the old fashioned way, flood his pain receptors with endorphins, kill two birds with one stone, as it were.

He eases himself onto his back, which of course, really fucking hurts. He can make a good stab at ignoring it though, because everything hurts and he’s actually starting to get used to it.

Under normal circumstances, he’d listen to his body’s warnings and just not bother. Unfortunately this isn’t a normal case of morning wood. This is unbearably horny. This is like all of the sex drive that he hasn’t felt over the last three months gathering itself up and punching him in the crotch.

He wants soft lips wrapped around his cock, and cunning emerald eyes looking at him with a grin. He wants a hot, clever tongue in his ass, fucking ravaging him. He wants tight heat clenched around his cock as he thrusts and teases. He wants to feel the give and pull of hipbones, and thighs and asscheeks under his hands.

He wants to bury himself in ~~Dean~~ someone, fuck and claim and bite and take and drag his nails down their sides.

But he can’t have that. All he has is his greatly weakened right hand.

He takes himself in a gentle grip, groans at the sensation. It feels good, feels even better when he strokes his hand down his cock, once, twice. He keeps his pace gentle, even though he wants it quick and rough and fast and frenzied. He’s got enough of his upstairs brain functioning that he knows he’s got no wrist stamina anymore. He’s got to do it slow, or not do it at all.

He tries to keep his mental images unspecific, vague. Nondescript men and women, thick cocks and dripping cunts. He’s seen more naked human forms than any mortal walking this earth, should be able to bring to mind any number of gorgeous bodies. Thick-thighed women with tits he could bury his face in, guys with beautifully firm asses that he could squeeze and bite and lick.

But who’s he fucking kidding.

When he closes his eyes it isn’t a Ptolemy of Alexandria, or a Rionach of Ireland whose clever hands he pictures wrapped around his cock. It’s the calloused fingers of a hunter, whispering sweet, dirty teases in his ear, grinning gleefully at him, ghosting kisses over his neck and chest, over his thighs. Licking his lips with barely restrained hunger to suck and bite and nuzzle and devour.

He can almost hear Dean’s voice, see and smell him. Leather, gunsmoke and engine oil sometimes, and more recently, earth, garden flowers and herbs laid over vague kitchen-y smells.

_Yeah? You like that, Cas? Wanna drizzle me in honey and lick it all off, yeah? I don’t need honey to enjoy the taste of you. Gonna eat you up, swallow you down. Yeah? You like my jokes. Bet you’d like my cock more. Huh? It’s here babe, just waiting for you. Yeah it is. S’all yours._

Cas fondles his balls with his free hand, rolls them between his fingers, head thrown back and grunting minutely. He doesn’t want to make too much noise, have Sam come rushing in and suffer one final fucking indignity.

He briefly entertains the idea of fingering himself, decides against it. Instead he works his hand into his hair, massages his scalp with a gentle but insistent touch. The way Dean would sometimes, when he was angling for a blowjob.

What Cas wouldn’t give to have Dean’s cock in his mouth now.

He drops his hand to his mouth, wraps his tongue around two fingers and starts to work them over, but they don’t taste right. He switches hands over, to give his right wrist a break, and to taste the precome on his fingers. That’s better – easier to pretend that it’s not his own hand, that those are Dean’s fingers pressing teasingly at him.

_Yeah, that’s it. Get them nice and wet for me. Gonna open you up so good – nice and slow and careful. Yeah, start so gentle you can barely even feel it – I know how much you think you hate that, but trust me, you don’t. It’s all about the anticipation, yeah. Start off slow and build up to how you need it. There’s a time for slow and gentle – not that you’d ever admit it. ”Now Dean. Fill me up, Dean. Fuck me properly, Dean. I’m not going to break, Dean. If you don’t stick that fucking cock in me, Dean, I’m going to jerk off in the shower for the next three weeks and leave you sexually unfulfilled, Dean.’“_

_Like you could resist fucking me for that long babe. You love it, don’t you. My big, thick, cock filling you all up. My tight ass taking you so well._

_Is that what you want, Cas? I can feel you writhing there underneath me. Maybe it’s not my huge, freckled cock you want. Maybe it’s my ass that’s getting you all hot and bothered. Huh? That what you want?_

_You want me to lower myself down onto you, feel yourself filling me up so, fucking, good? So perfect. I’d still start off gentle. You know that’s how I like to do it, take my time, make you really fucking work for it. And with each downward thrust, I’d get a little quicker, a little sharper, and then, then I’d fucking snap my hips and make you scream my name babe. I love hearing that sexy rumble of yours come all undone._

_Gonna ride you so hard you’re feeling it for days, you’ll keep looking down at your cock and being surprised that I’m not fucking wrapped around it still._

Cas groans at the image, fists himself a little quicker, a little tighter. He can already feel the ache of overexertion in his wrist, but he can’t let up now, not when he’s so close. Not when he’s so desperate.

_Oh, you’re so close, babe. I can tell. Look at you writhing and twisting and desperate. Love it when you get all hot and bothered. Love it even more when it’s ‘cause of me. Remember that diner outside Austin, where I wouldn’t stop wrapping my tongue around the spoon, and you wanted to go for a quickie in the bathroom but I wouldn’t for ages, not ‘cause I didn’t want it, ‘cause I fucking did, but ‘cause I couldn’t get enough of seeing you squirm?_

_What’s it gonna take to make you come, babe?_

_How about I tell you I wanna fuck you from behind, but not doggy style. Not with you kneeling on the bed, ass up in the air, legs all splayed out. Nah. Want you on my lap – your back pressed up against my chest while I wrap my arms around you tight, every inch of you touching me while I kiss and bite and lick at your neck – leave you little marks to remember me by._

_And then my hands will start to brush over your chest, start with those perky little nipples and work my way down, real slow. Slow enough to drive you mad, slow enough that you get frustrated and try and fuck yourself down on the monster cock splitting you open. But I won’t let you. I’ll hold you still and firm, thrusting up into you ever so gently._

_And I’ll keep on doing it, fondling your chest and hips and thighs and belly but never where you want, never that poor, weeping, neglected cock of yours._

_You’ve got a beautiful cock, you know that babe; I’ve told you a lot, but man, it is a fucking beauty. And it’ll be so hard to keep my hands off it, but I will. It won’t get touched until we’re both shaking with need. Until all my self-control just crumbles and I just can’t help myself._

_Only when I can’t take it anymore, when I need to feel you come, feel you clenching around me, spilling all over yourself and pulling me with you, will I take that gorgeous fat cock and pump it, hot and quick and dirty, just like you want it, just like you need it – until, boom._

Cas comes with a groan, head thrown back, but the Dean in his head won’t stop talking now that he’s been summoned.

 _Yeah? That do it for you, babe?_ His tone flips. _Well you know what, Cas. You can go fuck yourself._

And just like that, any afterglow is gone. 

It’s like picking at a cuticle. You can’t stop thinking about it, the only way to stop it is to just fucking rip it off, and it gives you a brief moment of pleasure before it just starts fucking hurting.

He used Dean’s face and voice and body to get off. Dean who won’t pick up his calls, who never wants to see him again, most likely. He fucked Dean over, but he’s still okay to use him for this.

Cas feels dirty, disgusting. Like he’s crossed yet another fucking line.

But hey, at least he isn’t going to die of blue balls.

He wipes his hand on the sheets – what’s one more stain – rolls back onto his side and into a ball.

 

*

 

Cas is fine. He learned that phrase from Dean. Not taught, but drawn in by osmosis. Assimilated.

He tries to read some of his book – he was enjoying it, before – the thinly veiled Christian mythology all churned up with paganism, roman legends and foreign gods; the carefully woven story, the beautiful, realistic descriptions of a place he’s visited, but has never truly seen – that bring it alive on paper in a way that makes it more 3D than it was in real life.

But he can’t focus anymore. His eyes won’t stick to reading in linear order; they dart and glance, read last lines between first, mix up the story into a puzzle, frustrating instead of enjoyable.

He wants to throw it across the room in rage, but he doesn’t, because it’s Sam’s property and he doesn’t want to break it – and also because he wants to behave, because if he behaves then maybe he gets this fucking cuff off sooner. It didn’t bother him too much at first, he was used to it, but now every scratch and chafe reminds him that he’s no better than a fucking dog, tied up here, not trusted.

He sets the book down and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. The movement pulls at the wounds on his back and he winces. He brings his hand slowly up under his t-shirt, prods and feels through the thin film. There’s something carved there, he’s decided. It’s the only explanation for Sam’s guilty expression every time he catches sight of them. He just wishes he knew what. A name maybe, he can’t think of much that would upset Sam – he’s seen so many wounds, this can’t be the worst.

He stops prodding with a sigh, tests his weight on his feet. He can already tell that he’s never going to make it all the way over to the box, so he just allows himself to crumple to the ground. It hurts, yeah, but seriously, what fucking doesn’t?

He crawls over to the box in less than dignified fashion. And yeah, he could ask for Sam’s help, but he doesn’t want to. Right now he wants a distraction, and Sam’s guilty, smacked puppy facial expression isn’t going to provide that.

He digs through the box, pulls out a few titles and tries to read them. It goes about as well as _The Sight_. _Fuck._ He keeps trying, has limited success with a cookbook. On the one hand, it doesn’t really matter if he can’t keep his focus if he’s just looking at the pictures, on the other hand, half of the pictures make him want to hurl, and _more_ nausea isn’t what he needs right now, thanks.

He strikes gold at the bottom of the box.

_Origami: A practical guide._

He fishes it out, flips it open. There are 6 sheets of plain white paper and two of coloured card – orange and purple – wedged in underneath the dust jacket. He nearly cries with relief.

He believes in the existence of God, of course he does, his Father created him, but he doesn’t believe _in_ God anymore. Still, sometimes moments like this take him by surprise, trigger a deeply buried instinct to praise his Father for his mercy. It always comes chased by another, more bitter thought. Where was that mercy when I _really_ needed it? A curse on his Father, the god of small mercies and large tortures.

And that’s a distracting train of thought, but not a pleasant one, so lets not dwell on that. He flips through the book until he sees a picture he likes, takes up one of the plain sheets of paper and starts folding.

 

*

 

Sam hears an angry shout, runs to Cas’s room, head full of visions of, well, nothing specific, but nothing good either.

Cas isn’t on the bed, oh shit, fuck—

He’s sat on the floor, murder frown fully engaged and there’s a book across his lap and sheets of scrunched up paper around him.

“You okay?” Sam asks, dumbly.

“Frustrated.” is Cas’s brief reply.

“By uh, what?”

”Japanese paper art.”

“You’re doing origami?”

“No.” He gestures to the balled up paper.

Sam sits down beside him, glances at the book.

“There’s your problem.” He announces, as if that vague statement solves anything.

“What?” Cas snaps.

“You’re on the last page – these things get harder as they go along, as you get more practice.”

“I know that, but—”

“But what? Gotta frog before you can dragon, Cas.”

Cas looks at him like he’s literally gone mad.

“Frogs are easy.” Sam explains, grinning. “I learned how to do them in high school. Whereas that dragon you’re trying to do is way hard, like, expert hard.”

“Hmm.” He grumps.

“I can show you how to do a frog, if you like? I think I still remember. I’m sure it’s in the book anyway.”

“No paper.” Cas says, stubborn and disillusioned with his new hobby already.

“Cas, if there’s one thing we have in mystifyingly large supply, it’s paper. I could sell paper to Office Depot.”

 “Fine.” Cas agrees, pissily.

“Excellent.” Sam darts out of the room, comes back with a box full of recycled printer paper and another, smaller box balanced precariously on top.

“Recycled is for practice, but I have fancy coloured stuff for when you get good, so you can make something really neat.”

Cas has lost interest, but he can feel Sam’s excitement and enthusiasm radiating out of him like a fucking nuclear generator of fun or something, so he nods, pats the floor next to him in invitation.

Sam grabs a pillow off the bed to sit on, frowns at the state of the sheets.

“Shit, I forgot to change your bed.”

“You can do it later.”

Cas just wants to get this fucking over and done with. He’s tired, his bones hurt, his back hurts and, most of all, predictably, he really needs to score.

 

*

 

“This does not look like a frog.” Cas complains. It is not his first complaint in the last short while. It is also not his fifteenth complaint.

Sam looks over at his attempt.

“Yeah it does. You just gotta use your imagination.”

“It’s just a piece of badly folded white paper.”

“Would it help if it were green?” Sam asks.

“No.”

“Anyway, the look isn’t the point. This is the point.”

Sam leans over, presses on the back of Cas’s frog and releases. It hops.

“You just smiled!” Sam crows.

The slight smile is instantly replaced by a pout-frown, but Sam still counts it as a victory.

Sam sets down his own creation, pops it on the floor and presses. It goes at least twice the distance that Cas’s had.

Cas’s frown intensifies.

“You cheated.”

“I’m just better than you.” Sam says, because he knows Cas, and stoking his viciously competitive streak is the best way to engage him in anything.

It’s a shame staying clean isn’t a competitive sport, because if it was, pfft, they’d have no problems keeping him on the straight and narrow.

Maybe Sam just needs to high school sidle up to him and whisper _I heard x say that you couldn’t stay clean for the rest of your life. You gonna back down from that challenge, Cas, huh?_

Nice idea. If only it were that easy.

Cas’s arm snaps out and whoa, he can move fucking fast for a guy with no actual muscles left on him, which, actually, they really ought to do something about. He grabs Sam’s frog, and Sam resigns himself to seeing it scrunched up into a ball of paper and hurled across the room.

That’s not what happens though. Instead he watches Cas unfold it carefully, next to his own, comparing the length and neatness of the folds. He picks up a fresh sheet of paper, spends a few moments squinting at it, and then he starts to fold carefully and precisely.

Now that he knows the purpose of the thing is not aesthetics, but movement, he has a better idea of what to do. His hands weren’t built to shape the beautiful, but they know all about purpose, about tension and levers and creating something with practical utility.

It’s only an origami frog – basic, easy, but he applies the same focus to it that he used to grant to angelic wars and cataclysms.

It’s just folding paper, but that doesn’t mean he can’t take it seriously. It’s just a few simple movements, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do it to the best of his ability. It’s just small, doesn’t mean—

He can feel himself trying to have an epiphany of some sort and he ruthlessly stamps it down. Fuck off, I’m content in my misery.

Cas’s finished product looks slightly less like a frog than before, and Sam thinks he’s fucked it up, offers to help him refold it. When Cas remains stubborn and unwilling he shrugs.

“Okay. How ‘bout we make this interesting then. We have a race – winner gets to decide what we make next.”

“I can’t walk.” Cas deadpans.

It takes Sam a moment, but then he snorts.

“Glad to see your sense of humour is still as shitty as ever.”

He puts down two sheets of paper, far away enough to give them a chance to make it interesting, close enough that Cas won’t have to move too much to get his frog across the line.

They line up, and Sam counts down.

“Three, two, one – go!”

Cas presses down, messes up the angle and barely moves. He grinds his teeth, tries again and has more luck. His frog springs down the course, rapidly catching, and then overtaking Sam’s.

“How the—”

Sam curses, presses harder, but the flaw is in his design, not his finger strength and he falls further behind, watches as Cas’s sails home.

“God damnit.”

Cas just looks smug.

“I’m so glad D—no-one has taught you how to play Monopoly yet.”

“I know the rules. I’ve never played, though.”

“Yeah, well, we’re keeping it that way.” Sam grumbles. “So, fair’s fair. I lost. What are we making next?”

Cas picks up the book, thumbs through it and then turns all the way back to the start.

“All of them.”

“Even the boring ones?” Sam teases.

“Even the boring ones.”

 

*

 

They master the art of origami cowboy hats, envelopes and guns before Cas gets too tired to continue.

“We’re going to have to work on building up your stamina.” Sam says, as he strips the dirty sheets and changes them for fresh ones while Cas watches from where he’s about 80% asleep on the floor.

“Less talking, more bed.” Cas mumbles.

Sam snorts, finishes making Prince Castiel’s bed.

“You okay to get here on your own, or you need a helping hand?”

“Carry me.”

Sam picks him up under the knees and arms, settles him on the bed and even tucks him in. Cas grunts something that might have been a thank you, or it might have been a fuck off.

“I’m gonna get you some therapy stuff, so we can work on building you back to strength.” Sam says, as he heads out the door.

The response he gets is definitely a fuck off.

 

*

 

Cahor is plotting. He’s plotting from a literal foxhole, as opposed to a metaphorical one, but it makes no difference to him. Pain and discomfort are just sensations, and he can turn those off easily enough in this body.

That doesn’t mean that the indignity of it all doesn’t rankle. That doesn’t mean that his hatred for Dean Winchester, already a vicious acid at the center of him, seeping through his blood and guts and leaking out into the air, can’t still become more rabid, more corrosive.

 His original plan, or the parts of it that came to fruition, have taken their toll on Dean. That much he can see clearly, and it makes his grace sing with a joy almost akin to gazing onto the face of his Father. Dean looked sallow, drawn out and barely functioning. And that was good, but it isn’t what Cahor wants. He wants him destroyed. He wants him enthroned in a hell of his own making.

He wants Dean, quite plainly, to suffer.

And he wants to have been the one who did it.

In the three days he’s been resting here, he has come up with the same amount of plans. Three is a divine number, a good one. And to perform one act of creation a day is God’s way. Cahor had always followed God’s way. 

Until the unholy trinity contrived to take it from him, to halt the apocalypse and cement the age of free will and sin and Godlessness.

Samuel, he played his assigned part. He did what he ought, and then was forced to react when the scales were weighed the wrong way – when Heaven’s champion was to be forced to fight without the Michael sword, diminished, incapable of defeating God’s true favourite. Samuel weighed the balance, and he made the right choice. 

Cahor, more than anyone, knows the world should not fall at Satan’s feet.

But Dean and Castiel.

The angel who rebelled, fell again and again for disobedience, who caught the Righteous Man and forbade him from giving up.

The man who said no to Michael, and doomed them to slow death, slow poison, because of it.

They will suffer, will suffer as the earth must suffer with what they’ve done, with the way God must suffer with the disobedience of his children.

Cahor has three plans. One plan wherein his own safety is assured, but Dean and Castiel will suffer no further. One plan where the balance is level. And one plan which he will almost certainly perish at the climax of, but where he will have a detailed view of the downfall of the two beings he hates most upon this earth.

Three plans, three paths, three branches. Three is a divine number, and because of this he knows that these plans are gifts from God. Cahor knows which choice he would make, were it up to him, but it is not. This is a test. As God tested Moses, as God tested Abraham, so Cahor is tested. He is a good son, dutiful and loyal. He will wait for God’s final sign, and then he will do as he is bade.

So Cahor lies in his foxhole, and he waits.


	35. A Matter of Scale

Cas’s room fills steadily up with origami. Basic at first, hats and simple, geometric animals, but getting more complex all the time. A little cardboard wolf sits on his bedframe. She has a pack too, but somehow none of her fellows turned out quite right. She was the first, and the best. Cas calls her Charlie. Because the little paper wolf is a present, and he doesn’t want to give her a proper name, gives her that of her future owner as a placeholder instead.

The dragon that he makes in fits and starts doesn’t have a name, placeholder or otherwise. Because it doesn’t matter, because the person that he won’t admit he’s making it for won’t want it anyway.

Sometimes that doesn’t stop him, sometimes he tells himself that is doesn’t matter, that he’s making it for himself.

Sometimes, he lies.

It looks like a kite at the moment, and kites don’t need names, anyway.

Cas’s room doesn’t just fill up with life, it also fills up with scrunched up balls of paper and screams.

Progress is not a rocket. It’s a swing. Forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards. Hopefully a little higher each time. Not always.

It’s hard to fold neat little lines when sometimes, the shaking and the craving spike back, get so bad that the only way to express the need is to howl and scratch and destroy.

 

*

 

“Dean. What are you doing?”

He looks up, startled, confused. What is he doing?

He’s crouched by the minibar, fingers wrapped around the handle.

“I – I—”

“There’s nothing in there.”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

Charlie looks at him, really looks. The sort of soul penetrating stare that Dorothy taught her.

Yeah, he ain't lying. Or he’s a better liar than she knows how to disarm.

“Just, come on, away from the minibar.”

“Yeah. Of course. Yeah, sorry.”

 

*

 

Sam is walking past Cas’s room, on his way to get morning coffee and make Cas some breakfast, when he hears his name being called.

“Sam.”

Uh oh. That tone – that soft, bitter tone – is never a sign of good things.

He pops his head around the door, hoping that if he doesn’t fully enter the room, that’ll somehow make whatever Cas wants to say to him better.

“What’s up, Cas?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Yeah of course, what d’ya want?”

“I want to choose my own clothes.”

“Sure, just lemme uncuff you and we’ll go grab something from your wardrobe.”

See, it worked. That’s an easy request, something he can do. He fishes the key out of his pocket, starts walking towards Cas.

“No.”

“What?”

“I want to move my things in here, but as I have neither the strength, nor a long enough leash,” Sam flinches, “I require your help.”

“I, uh, I can do that, Cas. I’ll unlock you anyway, though, so you can pick out what you want.”

“All of it.”

“Even—”

“ _All_ of it, Sam.”

And then Sam gets it. This isn’t about Cas wanting his stuff within easy reach, or at least, not mainly. This is about moving out of the room entirely.

“Oh. Yeah, okay. I can do that, if you’re sure, I mean—”

“I’m sure, Sam.”

“Okay, well. Yeah. Okay.”

“Thank you.”

 

*

 

**— So any news from the winged dickbags yet?**

**— If I had information, Dean, don’t you think I would have shared it?**

And god, even over text she sounds pissy and sarcastic.

**— I guess. So, um. Nothing about Ca—**

He tries to backspace, delete, accidentally presses send instead. Fuck.

**— If I even suspected they had knowledge of Castiel, I would have had you exterminate them all on earth, innocent vessels or no.**

**— Oh. Okay. **

Dean fidgets with the phone for a few minutes, taps out another text.

**— So they aren’t saying anything at all?**

**— Nothing relevant to you.**

**— Shouldn’t I decide that?**

**— No.**

**— Hannah, anything could help.**

Hannah doesn’t reply for a long fucking while, and Dean can almost hear her grinding her lack of teeth in frustration

**— They are separatists who don’t accept my rule. Cahor told them that they were the first soldiers in an army dedicated to my overthrow.**

**— You think that was legit?**

**— No. I think he lied to a gullible rabble of dissenters who’re now safely locked away where they can do no harm.**

**— Well at least one of us has good news.**

**— Is that all, Dean?**

**— Yeah.**

He doesn’t throw the phone against the wall, but he does grip it so tight that Charlie pulls a face, squeezes his wrist until he’s forced to let go.

 

*

 

The little wolf pack gets destroyed. Charlie falls behind the bed, so she stays.

Cas fishes her out the next morning, throws her across the room. It might seem like an act of violence, but it barely crumples her and it means she’s far away from his apocalyptic hands. Maybe it’s small apocalypses here, paper animals and meaningless things, but it’s a question of power. He destroys what he can. When he has angelic might, he destroys on a grand scale, when he has human hands, he destroys on a personal scale. When he has trembling junkie claws, he destroys everything he can grab hold of.

Not all the time, but enough for it to make a difference.

*

 

With his wounds, physical and mental, the shakes and the scars, the lancing pain and the stiff joints, it takes Dean six days to carve out all of the bullets he feels they’ll require.

It takes Dean three further days to make a number of trap tarps . More rugged than sheets, more durable. Easy enough to fold into your belt without being too bulky, restricting movement too much.

It takes him a day to make a series of refined emergency Hannah-summoning kits. Scraps of tarp cut up into squares and bundled closed with twist ties, requisite sigils painted on the inside, filled with a cling filmed bag of spell ingredients. Untie the knot, drop the bag to the floor, add match, intone name. Simple.

It takes Dean another two days to acquire and assemble the parts for a trap gun.

It takes three more days for the net guns he’d ordered off the internet to arrive. They’re big, clunky. Less likely to jam than his homemade versions, but he didn’t know how much time they’d have – had to err on the side of caution and all that bullshit.

It takes him a further day to test the bought weapons to his satisfaction, tailor and alter their nets to suit him.

It takes Dean two weeks to start getting antsy and frustrated at his current lack of action.

“How wide does this search of yours go?”

“It covers all the park exits, the surrounding towns for maybe a 50 mile radius. Much more than that and I’m gonna get caught.”

“And how likely is it—”

“That he’s slipped past not only the security cameras, but also all the cops and every single ranger?”

Dean grimaces.

“Yeah, unlikely, but—”

“Infinitesimal. I didn’t just tell the cops he was in the area. I told them where he was last seen. There’s a round the clock watch on the park exits, there’s a fucking chopper making the rounds with Channel 6 news and weather painted on the side.”

“Oh.”

“Unless he’s tunnelling to Australia, we’re gonna get him Dean, okay?”

“But what if he _is_ tunnelling—”

“Then nothing we can do will help, we’ll just have to keep looking.”

God, but he wants a drink.

“Here, while we’re waiting, how about you drill me on my angelic exorcisms?” Charlie suggests. She recognises the symptoms, knows Dean needs distracting or else.

“We can’t exorcise him—”

“Because then he’ll be in heaven, and neither you nor Hannah want that, I get it. But it still can’t hurt for me to know.”

“Yeah, uh, yeah. Okay.”

“Sweet.”

 

*

 

Cas manages to walk all the way to the bathroom unaided, and he’s proud of himself, so proud. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, pretend he’s frustrated at his slow pace or at his failing body in general, Sam can see it bursting out of every pore.

And if that makes him happy, what Sam has to say next will make him lift off into space.

He lets Cas have his moment first, lets him stand up and piss into a toilet with no need for assistance, lets him walk back to the bed.

Cas sits down, and his mood dampens. He holds out his wrist.

Sam shakes his head.

“I think we’re past that now, don’t you?”

Cas doesn’t react with the joy that Sam was expecting. He frowns, shrinks in on himself a bit.

“This isn’t a trap, Cas. I don’t do that.”

“If this is a joke—”

“It’s not. I promise.” But Cas is still looking warily at him, and Sam has to remind himself that this isn’t personal, that it’s fucking hard for Cas to trust anyone these days.

He takes out a key, removes the cuff from the bedframe.

“I promise, Cas.”

Cas’s eyes start to water.

 

*

 

Cahor expects to spend 40 days in his foxhole. He does not. After just 18 he receives his sign. He prays thanks to his Father, tunnels his way up and into daylight. The sun feels fresh and warm on his skin, and he allows himself to bask in the brief mortal pleasure.

He manifests his angel blade, thanks God for his divine inspiration, because this plan had been an idea, but he hadn’t quite grasped the detail; that was the sign he was waiting for, that divine spark of inspiration. He slices a thick gash along his upper thigh, does as God willed him, and then he runs.

 

*

 

Sam leaves a cane balanced against the edge of Cas’s bed. He doesn’t hand it to him, or tell him he thinks he should use it. He just leaves it there. Cas is grateful for that.

 

*

 

Dean has Charlie in a grapple hold – mortal combat 101, because even though it hurts so badly he thinks he might pass out, physical activity helps tone down the cravings, because he fucking loves her and doesn’t want her to die if he can help it, because it’s something to fucking do – when her phone and laptop begin to shriek with an unbearable sound.

“The security feed!”

Dean lets go, grabs a Hannah bag from his belt. He unties it and drops it to the floor, followed shortly by a match.

She appears instantly.

“Oh thank god, I was worried you’d appear in proportional size.” Dean wheezes.

Hannah turns to Charlie.

“Has he been spotted?”

“Yeah. Five minute drive away. Heal Dean, and then we can go.”

Hannah lays her fingers on Dean’s head, begrudgingly lets her grace wash through him. She doesn’t want him along, he’s a drunken liability, too much heart, just like Castiel. But she can also tell that right now, he’s sober, and she knows he’s often prone to two things – sparks of genius, and selfless determination to get the job done. Either might prove useful.

Dean pulls in a deep breath, and there’s no physical pain. He fixes Hannah in his best hunter stare.

“Let’s gank this fucker.”

 

*

 

The dragon is finished, and it’s turned out beautifully.

Cas can’t bear to look at it.

He makes the final fold, holds it up to the light to bask in the satisfaction of a job well done.

He’d just picked up the first piece of card he’d seen, and it hadn’t looked all that special in his dim room.

In the light, it looks like D— it looks like his eyes.

He can’t bring himself to crumple it up and throw it away. Too much effort, too much investment and hard work. A tiny bit of beauty and permanence that he’s managed to create in a world of tar and quicksand and fucking clichés that he has to live through.

Instead he stuffs it in his hoodie pocket, grabs his cane and limps out of his room, makes it halfway up the corridor before he has to rest – he tried to go too fast once again and now he’s paying.

He realizes he’s outside their old room.

He glances inside, it doesn’t look like half the life lived there has been uprooted and moved on. It looks mostly the same – the sheets are still rumpled and unmade, there’s still crap strewn on the floor. You’d have to know what was missing to see the difference. Sure, the open wardrobe looks a little less full than before, but it’s not like there was a surgical line cut down the middle and that was one person’s stuff and that was the others.

You wouldn’t have a clue, not unless you were looking.

He closes the door, makes his way slowly towards the kitchen. The little dragon gets stuffed at the back of a cupboard, behind cans of preserved fruit and jars of jam so old that they look like they’re thinking about gaining sentience. A cupboard for forgotten things.


	36. Scraping the Bottom of the Bad Luck Barrel

Hannah is tense during the short drive, but then again, she’s trapped in a car with two(ish) hunters and enough weaponry to wipe her out about eighteen times over.

“Do we have a plan?” She asks, fingering the net gun that Dean gave her with distaste.

“Yeah. Shoot first, ask questions later.” Dean snipes, not taking his eyes off the road.

“With _this?_ ”

“Yes, Hannah, with that.”

“Why don’t I just—”

“It’s not a regular gun, Hannah.” Charlie interrupts, because Dean doesn’t seem to understand, or maybe care, that she’s just dropped into this cold and has at best only a vague idea of what they’ve been doing. “It’s a net gun.”

“You think a _net_ will hold an angel?” She sneers.

“Do I think a net on which I have painstakingly painted an angel trap – and do you know how fucking hard it was to make sure it was unbroken, newsflash, nets are literally made of holes – will hold the fucker, yeah, I do.” Dean snaps.

“Take a right here.” Charlie interrupts.

Hannah hmmms disbelievingly, hefts the weapon and aims it. Which, considering they are in a fucking Jeep (mk 2) thundering along at considerably over the speed limit, not cool. Charlie gives her a panicked look and she rests it back on her lap.

“I doubt it’ll prove useful. I don’t know the range, the accuracy—”

“30 yards. Moderate recoil – not that you need to worry about that. Aim it at the angel and hope for the best.” Dean’s tone is snappish, but at least he’s providing useful information now, and not just sniping.

“And a right at the next intersection.”

“You seem better prepared this time.” Hannah observes.

“Yeah, well, you live and learn, sunshine.”

“Destination in 200 yards.”

And suddenly the tension is thick and heavy in the air.

“This isn’t where your map—”

“Dean, he moved. I’ve got a real time map being pinged to my phone.”

Dean nods slowly, pulls to a halt in the mall parking lot.

“So,” he asks slowly. “How the fuck are we gonna play this? ‘Cause this is a Saturday and that’s a mall. We can’t exactly go in fucking guns blazing.”

“I imagine that’s what he’s counting on.” Charlie says.

“Hannah, can you like mojo everyone out of the building?”

She shakes her head.

“I could knock them all out, but that would leave them vulnerable, and also a use of my power that large would alert the host, who would—”

“Yeah, we get it.” Dean interrupts. No time for reasons, he just wants fucking answers. “We need a way of trapping him there while we get all these people evacuated.”

“I could get the cops to set up a porous blockade – no-one gets in but anyone can come out.”

“Yeah, and in seven hours when the mall is closing and the last person leaves, we’ll be able to catch him. Assuming he hasn’t already left.”

Dean is being a dick, and he’s aware of that, but he’s also very tense right now and he can’t help it.

“I think I can help.” Hannah pipes up.

Dean snaps around to face her.

“When I was part of Castiel’s faction, we had a sigil that we used to imprison angels.”

Dean nods, remembering.

“You used it to lock up Tessa.”

“Who you then killed.” Hannah feels the need to add.

“Guys.” Charlie’s decided to start running preventative intervention, instead of just waiting for it to spiral and bringing them back to heel. It’s not like there’s a fucking urgent problem on their hands or anything. Nah.

“On a building this size, it wouldn’t suppress his powers, but if one was placed at all of the exits—”

“It’d stop him getting out?” Dean hazards.

“Hopefully.”

“Cool. What’s it look like and how do we draw it – this’ll go quicker if we split up.”

“It has to be drawn by an angel.”

“Fabulous.” Dean grouses.

He gives everyone a quick once over, to check there aren’t any very illegal weapons visible, and then climbs out of the Jeep. It’s fucking weird having to practically climb down to the ground and he doesn’t care how rugged and practical this fucking thing is, he hates it and wants to set it on fire.

The mall doesn’t look very big on the outside, but these things can be deceptive. For all they know it’s got roots like a tree, branching out for miles underground. To this end, Dean checks out the map stand out front, carefully memorizes the layout. Simple enough. Two floors, three plaza sections on each floor, all with dumb, wacky names, each connected by a thin, twisty corridor which seems to have been designed with the express intention of making navigating the building as difficult as possible. Oh, and of course, each plaza isn’t actually a wide open space. No. It’s full of market stalls, and food carts, and tables and chairs, and basically just plenty of stuff to make sure that at no point do they ever have a clear line of sight.

 In short, lots of excellent places to get ambushed, and fuck all chance of being anywhere open enough to use their net guns. Perfect.

There are three exits, one for every ground floor plaza, of course. Just to make sure, though, he sends Charlie over to check with the security guard. She confirms. Three exits, that’s some good news, at least.

 

*

 

It’s surprisingly easy getting the sigils painted by the doors. Only one guy looks at them funny, and Charlie manages to fob him off by flashing a Front Range Community College ID and waffling on about social experiments and broken window theory.

As Hannah completes the last line of the last sigil, she winces.

“I can feel it – like I’m constrained, limited to this small space.”

“Excellent.” Charlie grins

“If you can feel it,” Dean says slowly, “then what about him?” Dean won’t say Cahor’s name out loud, like this is Harry fucking Potter or something.

Hannah’s wild-eyed look is all the confirmation he needs.

Charlie fumbles her phone out of her pocket, checks his location.

“He’s in Mindfullness Plaza.”

She brings up the police chief’s number, hits call.

And as if that were a cue, shots begin to ring out. There goes the attempt at keeping civilian casualties off the radar.

Everything is ominously quiet for a moment, and then the screaming starts.

Charlie’s call finally connects

“Hello. Yeah, this is Agent Romanoff. The suspect is in the mall, we’ve got him trapped in here, but he’s got a gun and there have probably already been casualties. We need your guys to set up a cordon of some kind, make sure there’s no-one coming into this building but that everyone gets out. Understood. Yeah, yeah. No, he won’t make an attempt to flee. I don’t have time to explain it to you, but he doesn’t believe he’s physically capable of leaving the building. Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

A warning begins to sound over the PA system.

“Warning, warning. Please evacuate the mall. Warning, warning. An incident has occurred. Warning, warning. Please make your way towards the nearest exits.”

It loops back around to the start, plays again.

Charlie nods at Dean, at Hannah, and then they all begin to run.

 

*

 

It’s difficult moving against the tide, but Charlie holds out her badge, and Dean unholsters his gun, and people make the connection and try and let them the fuck through. People are good like that.

Charlie sets her phone to vibrate every time Cahor moves to a new location – and god bless paranoid malls and their overzealous security because he’s moving a hell of a lot.

“We’re gonna have trouble using our net guns in here.” Dean points out as they run. “It’s almost like he fucking knew.”

Charlie snorts.

“You think he’s got a mole, Dean? Which of the three of us is it?”

He rolls his eyes, quickens his pace for a moment, just to watch Charlie’s shorter legs struggle.

“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying this is exactly my fucking luck.”

“ _Our_ fucking luck, Dean.”

He snorts, looks down at his hand. It’s still trembling, but only minutely. And anyway, there’s nothing he can do about it now. He’s just gotta hope that he’s somehow managed to scrape the bottom of his bad luck barrel and from here things will work his way.

Stranger things have happened, but not many.

 

*

 

There are bodies in the plaza– too far gone for Hannah to repair without breaching the realms of life and death. There’s a woman slumped, half in and half out of one of the stores and Hannah insists they check on her, insists they look inside, even though Charlie tells her that Cahor isn’t even in this section of the mall anymore.

The guy behind the counter has his eyes burned out, killed the old fashioned way, and there are a handful of bloodied bullets on the floor that’ve clearly come out of Cahor. At least the guy died fighting. Like that’s a fucking consolation.

Hannah sweeps past all of this, to a middle aged woman on the floor, bleeding out and spun through with a couple of holes. She’s healed and sent to sleep with a gentle brush of Hannah’s fingers.

Dean practically bounces with impatience.

“I get you wanna save people, but we’re losing time here, Hannah.”

“Cahor is trapped in this building with no hope of escape. I set the sigils, so only my hand or my death can break them. We have time and she only had a few minutes left. Quell your impatience.”

Dean grits his teeth, tries very hard to do as he’s told. He just wants to ditch them and take off, but, in the end, that’s what got them into this mess, so he just stands and seethes.

Hannah brushes herself off, motions for Charlie to lead the way.

Cahor leads them on a ragged chase – they arrive a few moments too late every time, don’t even see him. He’s moving faster than they can manage, and he will continue to. Angels don’t tire, unlike the all too human Charlie and Dean.

Hannah heals two more people, can do nothing for a further three, riddled with handgun bullets.

It’s why they aren’t expecting what happens next. Stupid fucking sons of bitches.

They round a corner, frantic, getting desperate, and a bust of machine gun fire greets them. Dean feels it slice into his chest, even as he returns the shot. He doesn’t look to see if the bullet landed, turns to check on Charlie, in front but a little way to his left. She throws herself behind some cover, before he can properly assess her, but if she’s moving with that much agility she must be okay.

That’s good. At least one of them ought to be.

God, it hurts.

Dean’s mouth is full of copper, and he realises that he’s not standing up. When did that happen? He coughs and there’s more blood. Always blood. It’s coated his hands for longer than he can remember and now it’s worked its way up to his throat and mouth too. It’s a fitting way to go, he thinks grudgingly, drowning in all that blood that he’s spilled.

He doesn’t have long left before he’s gone – down for the count, or dead, but useless regardless of which, and he needs to do something to make a fucking difference. He scrabbles for his net gun, aims and squeezes the trigger. And then everything is dark.

 

*

 

Hannah sees Dean go down and curses, but she can’t let the chance he created go unused. Dean’s first bullet lodged itself in Cahor’s arm – not where he aimed it, but good enough. His net didn’t work so well, entangled itself in the machine gun stand. But it’s the bullet that gives them the chance. As long as Cahor doesn’t get an opportunity to extract it, she can easily catch and overpower him.

Hannah throws herself forwards after the fleeing angel, finds herself suddenly disorientated, a hundred metres back, at Charlie’s side.

“Heal Dean.” Charlie commands.

“He’s getting away!” Hannah screeches and takes off again.

Charlie brings her back again.

“You had time for a half dozen strangers. You’ve got time for Dean.”

“Innocents, Charlie.”

She lunges away again, but it’s futile. Charlie ignites another summoning bag, pulls her back.

“I have another five of these bags, Dean has at least that many again. Quit wasting time.”

Hannah snarls, thinks about smiting Charlie, but holds herself in check.

She heals Dean and sets off again at a run.

 

*

 

Picking a bullet out of your own arm while running isn’t easy. Cahor’s grip keeps slipping and the pain is agonising. Still, he should be grateful that at least it didn’t get him in the leg, that would really have fucked things up.

He glances behind just in time to see Hannah wink out of existence and re-appear next to the ginger one. Excellent, that gives him a chance to put a bit of distance between them, wait around a corner and run Hannah through when she comes charging around again.

If only he had another holy oil flamethrower. He could torch Hannah and the spare human in one go.

He slips into a store, grits his teeth and plunges his blade into his shoulder, digs until he hits the bullet and levers it out. It drops to the floor with a metallic clunk and he sighs with relief as his powers come flooding back.

He positions himself, waits until he hears the sound of footsteps, and then he lunges.

 

*

 

Hannah is caught by surprise – too firmly in hunting mode to believe that the situation could be reversed and leave her vulnerable. Cahor nearly beheads her in one swift movement, and it’s only barely that she gets her blade up in time. She parries, knocks his weapon away and attempts to drive him backwards – they’re well matched. Hannah might have more angelic strength behind her, but Cahor has more deviousness, more underhand tricks.

He lunges at Hannah with his empty hand and releases a burst of holy light. While she blocks that with her own, he gouges at her ribs, flicks his free hand again and uses telekinesis to barrage her with the contents of the store – baskets, clothing stands.

A sweater leaps onto her face and wraps around her eyes as Cahor whoops, lunges past her and out into the plaza. He dives into the market section, backs into a corridor of stalls narrow enough that only the two of them can fit, just in case her two helpers should come looking.

Hannah snarls, incinerates the offending item of clothing and lunges after him. This isn’t how angels fight angels. They meet blade against blade, none of these underhand tricks and dirty moves. For all he claims to hate them, Cahor has been immersing himself in the ways of humanity too long – he’s starting to fight like one of them.

 

*

 

Charlie rushes over to help Dean to his feet, but he doesn’t need it. He stands, spits the remaining blood out of his mouth.

“Where are they?”

“Outside American Apparel, in the market stalls.”

“Can you bring up the security feed?”

Charlie does as asked and Dean studies it, nods.

“Here’s what we do—”

 

*

 

Hannah is furious, and Cahor plays to that, taunts her, throws food and other things at her. Nothing that’ll hurt, just enough to stoke her rage, make her sloppy and thoughtless.

He sees an opening, a slip of vulnerable flesh left undefended, and he pounces.

 

*

 

Dean takes a deep breath, two, holds his gun up. His hand shakes, but this time he doesn’t try and stop it, he just does his best to accommodate it.

He squeezes the trigger.

 

*

 

Hannah pops out of existence. Cahor doesn’t even have time to react before there’s a white heat at the base of his spine, and then pretty much nothing. He stumbles, is starting to fall, and that doesn’t matter because his legs might be affected but his arms aren’t, he can just dig the bullet out again and everything will be fine.

And then there’s a pneumatic whoosh and hiss, and the net that Charlie has just fired slams into him, entangling him as the magnetised ends are drawn together with a loud, echoing thunk.

 

*

 

Dean lowers the gun, drops to his knees and pulls in a huge breath, and then another and another in quick succession and he knows he’s hyperventilating, and he can’t fucking breathe, but it doesn’t matter, because they’ve done it. They’ve fucking done it, they’ve got the son of a bitch and this is finally, _finally_ fucking over.

Charlie and Hannah rush over.

“Dean? Are you okay?” Charlie asks, and she sounds a little bit giddy and a little bit worried.

Hannah just taps him on the shoulder, and suddenly his breathing regulates and he can stand.

“We did it.” He laughs, and suddenly he’s hysterical. “We got him.”

Charlie hugs Dean, bone crushing, heartening.

“Team effort.” She says with a grin, lets go of Dean with one arm and brings Hannah into the hug. She goes, but reluctantly.

“It’s over.” Dean whispers, and there are tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s happy, or whether it’s because he’s devastated.

Maybe both.

Definitely both.

 

*

 

It’s Hannah, of course, who breaks the moment.

“What are you going to do with him now?” She asks, extracting herself from the hug.

Dean withdraws too, rubs at his eyes. He hasn’t thought that far, not with any real consideration.

“Take him back to the bunker. It’s up to Cas what happens to him.”

Hannah nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer, and wow, that’s a first in their relationship.

“I need to return to heaven. I’ve been gone too long already. Summon me when you decide his fate. If he is to be killed, then there is information I must extract first, and if not, I’ll still need the information, but I will also need to purge some secrets from his head before he’s locked up.”

“You can do that?” Charlie asks in horror.

“Angels can, and will, do a lot of fucked up shit, Charlie.” Dean says bitterly, remembering Naomi, what happened to Samandriel and Cas.

“So can humans.” Hannah replies, and then she vanishes.

Dean does a double take.

“How – I didn’t even see her texting—”

“She does that.” Charlie says.

“Yeah, well. She’s gonna have to un-do that and take us along for the ride next time. We can’t just fucking walk out of here with a guy bleeding in a net covered in occult looking symbols.

“Gimme two seconds before you call her.” Charlie says. “I need to wipe the security feed first.”

Okay, yeah, that’s a good idea.

She taps a few buttons, looks up brightly. And wow, that girl is good. Let’s hope she never uses her powers for evil.

They light up a Hannah bag and she reappears a moment later looking several shades part furious.

“What?!”

“We need to hijack your ride out of here.”

She harrumphs, links arms with the two of them, grabs at Cahor through the netting.

And then they’re in Montana.

“Oh.” Joe says. “You brought friends?”

“They’ve leaving.” Hannah snaps, and then evacuates Caroline’s body without another word.

They do leave, thanking poor bemused Joe, and slightly shell-shocked looking Caroline, for all of their help, dickbag angel slung over Dean’s shoulders in a half-assed fireman’s carry.

It’s been a long and stressful day.


	37. We Were in Love Once, Have You Forgotten?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Rise Against song, _[Bridges](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kFk6Y2cSBI)_

It takes them two days to get back to the bunker in their stolen car. Dean finds himself drawing it out, trying to prolong the journey. He doesn’t want to go home – or to where home used to be. Doesn’t want the reckoning, the last fucking goodbye.

If Charlie notices the unusual route they’re taking, she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say much at all – sleeps a lot, reads a little. She’s tired, in more ways than one. Dean gets that, and in a shitty way, he’s grateful that she’s not in much of a conversational mood.

This is going to be goodbye, and not just to Cas either. Sure, he’ll see Sam again, but less, he imagines. Someone needs to look after Cas; it’d be the worst kind of selfishness to just dump him by the wayside, all on his own – again.

See, the fact that he has to add “again” to that sentence.

This is the right choice. It hurts, but it’s the right choice. It’s like cleaning out a wound with saltwater. It ain’t pretty, and it’s painful, but it’s for the benefit of all involved in the end, clear out the infection.

He doesn’t think he’ll actually say goodbye. It’s easier just to leave. If he just leaves then he can pretend that Cas does still give a shit, somewhere deep down. If he has to listen to Cas’s emotionless, so fucking what, get lost goodbye, then he thinks he’ll lose it.

He’s past wanting to throw himself off the nearest cliff, or between the teeth of some monster, but yeah, he’s only just past it. Let’s not tempt fate when fate has always made it clear that it enjoys ruining Dean’s life unprompted. The last thing it needs is an excuse.

They arrive at the bunker, and Sam is sitting on the doorstep waiting to greet them. He looks tired, stretched but not thin, and there’s a weird sort of contentment radiating off him. Yeah, Dean thinks. He’s making the right choice. They’ll be good for each other, those two. They got off to a rocky start, but since then they’ve built a real, solid friendship. They can rely on each other, in a way that neither can rely on Dean.

Things just go better when Dean isn’t around. He gets it. He’s coming to terms with it.

Dean climbs out of the car, greets his brother with a warm smile. “Sammy.”

Sam dashes over, enfolds him in a bonecrusher of a hug.

“It’s good to see you again, man.”

“You too.” They pull apart, and Sam grins like the delighted man-puppy he is.

“You did it.”

“Thanks to Charlie and Hannah.” Dean deflects the praise.

Charlie makes eye-contact with Sam and rolls her eyes, pulls him into an excited hug.

“Thanks to us all _equally._ ”

They break apart and Sam turns to Dean.

“Cas is asleep, but I can wake him up for you?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Yeah, okay. Let him rest. You’ll see him in the morning.”

“No, Sam.”

Sam does that puzzled eyebrow scrunch thing.

“What?”

“I’m not sticking around.”

“But you just got back.”

Dean shrugs.

“What the fuck—” Sam’s tone takes on this sharp, bitter edge.

“Dude.” Dean says tiredly, and he is tired, _so fucking tired_. “I’m just here to drop off the son of a bitch, pick up my shit, and then I’m hitting the road.”

“Where to?”

“Dunno yet.”

“And what about Cas?”

“What about him?”

“He needs you, Dean.”

Dean rubs at his eyes.

“No, he doesn’t; he’s made that clear. And it’s fine. I get it. I’m not sticking around to ruin his life some more. I’m gonna hit the road, do some low key hunting jobs and clear my head.”

“You can’t—”

“Sam!” Dean snaps. “I’ve had a very long and fucking stressful few months and I’m tired. Keep trying to pick this fight with me, and I won’t even stay for a piss and a coffee, I’ll go now.”

Sam pulls in a deep, furious breath, nostrils flaring like a fucking horse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“How long you sticking around for, then?” He asks instead.

“Couple of hours. Just wanna stretch my legs and get the kinks out of my spine, then I’ll be on the road again. Places to see.”

“But I haven’t seen you for weeks – you’re seriously gonna take off, just like that?”

“I just want some distance, Sam. Give it a few months and maybe I’ll swing back around, or you can come meet me. On your own.”

“Dean, at least tell him—”

Dean turns around, as if he’s walking back to the car. Sam grabs his arm.

“Okay, sorry. No more trying to convince you, I get it.”

“Thanks for respecting my wishes.”

“Yeah. Come on in then.” Sam says waspishly.

Dean goes over to the trunk and extracts the angel, meanwhile Sam pins Charlie with a harsh little glare, like he’s asking why the fuck didn’t she try and talk him out of this.

She leans in close, whispers.

“He pulled the same trick on me – said if I bugged him about it he wouldn’t come back at all. I thought this was progress.”

 

*

 

They carry Cahor down into the basement, where a concrete angel trap has been installed next to the demon one. It wouldn’t be the bunker if there wasn’t some sort of supernatural creature chained up in the basement, after all.

They take every precaution possible. He’s manacled to an iron chair, with his hands cuffed together and stretched out over the desk in front of him, so that he can’t reach around and dig out the bullet lodged in his spine; there’s an angel trap spray painted above the door, so that even if he does get out, he can’t get out of the room. If they had enough holy oil, they’d probably try and keep a perpetually burning ring of it around him too. No precaution is considered overkill. He’s already shown he’s a tricky fucking bastard, no point underdoing it.

The whole time he says nothing, just fixing them with an impenetrable glare.

“Well.” Charlie says, as they leave him down there. “That gave me the heebies.”

Sam nods, but Dean doesn’t appear to be listening.

Sam makes coffee and the three of them sit in the living room. It’s difficult, stilted at first, what with Dean’s refusal to discuss anything about Cas or himself, but Charlie plugs up the conversational gaps with talk of _Game of Thrones_ – getting super misogynistic and gross and just way worse than the books – and all of the other shows she’s watching at the moment, and eventually they fall into a familiar pattern.

Sam behaves himself so well, that when he asks Dean to stay the night, with puppydog eyes and “it’s really late, I don’t want you to fall asleep at the wheel” wheedling, Dean agrees.

 

*

 

Dean excuses himself to go to the bathroom. On the way back he can’t help meandering towards their room. Just one little peek, just one final glance at Cas’s face as he sleeps to sustain him. Just to see if he looks okay.

He opens the door, slips in. But Cas isn’t there. The bed is freshly made, empty. He flips on the light, looks around. It’s the right room – there are Dean’s photos, his vinyl all lined up across the wall – but the bed is empty, and there’s something else off about it, too.

Cas’s books aren’t here. The classic paperbacks he’d been hoarding, a new one found in every little thrift store they stumbled across, devoured and lined up on the shelf. Dean can’t see a single one. He gets that feeling in his chest and throat, tight, constricted.

He opens up the wardrobe, checks though the clothes hanging there. All his. Same story in the cupboards.

There’s not a trace of Cas left in the room.

God, he must hate Dean so, so much, if he can’t even bear to stay in here. The fucking lump in Dean’s throat is swelling up and he needs to get out of there before he throws up, or starts to cry, or fucking both.

He turns back towards the door, and as he does a flash of green catches his eye on the otherwise white bedspread. For a moment he thinks it’s going to be a letter, a fucking letter to break up with him, and he won’t read that, he can’t.

He goes over anyway, and it’s not a letter. It’s a fucking green cardboard dragon. He picks it up, examines it carefully, flips it over to see if there’s something written on it. Nothing. One of the wings is a little mangled though, so he straightens it out.

He wants to take it, knows that’s probably the idea. Everything else in this room is his, by extension this probably is too.

He guesses Cas made it.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he means by it, though.

He puts it in his pocket, flips off the light and leaves.

It takes him a long time to get back to the living room. So long that by the time he does, Charlie and Sam are both asleep on the sofa.

It’s better this way, no fuss, no goodbyes.

He can just go.

It’s easier, for everyone, but especially for Dean.

 

*

 

The bunker conducts sound much better than Cas ever realized. He hears Charlie and Dean arrive, hears Sam try and persuade him to stay. He hears Dean’s overloud, farcically frustrated agreement, and a few hours later, he hears him packing up his stuff to leave.

He hasn’t even come to check whether Cas is alive, and Cas gets that. He gets why, but. But what? But he’s weak and he just wants to see Dean’s face one more time – even if all Dean does is tell him to go fuck himself again.

It’s funny, he never thought of himself as a masochist, but here he is, willingly heaping on the pain.

 

*

 

Dean hears the uneven thump of someone walking with a cane, and he knows who it is, but his hand is already on the door, if he can just get out before—

“Dean.”

He turns around, and there’s Cas, looking, oh god. Looking tiny and frail, and the least like himself that he has ever looked.

“You weren’t supposed to…” Dean trails off. He wasn’t supposed to what? Be awake? Ever have to see me again?

“I guessed.”

“Yeah. So, let’s just, not.”

Dean turns to the door again, turns back to say one last thing, even as Cas tries to do the same.

“Dean I’m—”

“I’m sorry, Cas.”

“—Sorry.”

There’s a moment where they’re both processing, and then caustic laughter in stereo.

“Wh—”

“W—”

Dean laughs again, soft, bitter. He motions with his hand for Cas to speak.

“What’re you apologizing for?”

Dean grimaces.

“Look, I get it, but don’t be that vicious, don’t make me fucking say it.”

“Say what, Dean?”

“Cruel isn’t a good colour on you, babe.” Dean rasps. “You want me to admit it out loud? Okay, I can do that. I’m sorry for letting you down. I’m sorry for letting this happen, for not getting you back in time, for not even having the balls to be there when you woke up. I’m sorry for the fucking day I met you and started ruining your life, for infecting you with my shitty existence and dragging you down to my level. Does that help; does that make you hate me any less?”

Cas looks like he’s been punched and Dean swallows around the fucking lump in his throat that brings. This is what Cas wanted, so why is he looking at Dean like he’s the one getting his fucking heart broken?

“Dean, I don’t—”

“Look, I get it, okay.” Maybe if Dean keeps talking over Cas he can stop him saying it out loud. “Just please, let me leave with some of my dignity intact. Because god, you don’t even know how hard it is to just walk away and not fucking beg you to take me back.”

“Dean.” Cas repeats insistently. “I don’t blame you for any of that.”

“What?”

“None of the things you apologized for are your fault.”

Dean groans, wipes roughly at his red rimmed, but tear free eyes. “Why are you making this harder?”

“Because I love you, and I don’t blame you. None of this is your fault, but I said some hideous things to you, and I understand that you want to walk away, and never see me again. I just needed to say sorry first.”

“I don’t _want_ to walk away, Cas.” Dean says, bitterly.

“But?”

“But nothing. I don’t want to go. I won’t stay and make your life a fucking misery, though, so don’t lie to me out of pity.”

“I’m not lying.” Cas says, and this is so much harder than he thought it’d be. He was ready for Dean’s hatred and rage. He wasn’t ready for the sad, tired, vulnerability that Dean’s showing him now.

“I wish I could believe that.”

Dean won’t meet his eyes, staring at a patch of floor by Cas’s feet, and Cas can’t let him go without even looking him in the eyes one last time.

He closes the distance between them, takes Dean’s face in one hand and tilts his chin up.

Dean’s eyes are watering, but he isn’t crying, no matter how badly he clearly wants to. He doesn’t want Cas to see him cry.

“I love you, Dean. Okay? And I do, and I have, and I will, and that won’t ever be in doubt.”

Dean pulls away from his grip.

“That’s not what you said—”

“I know, and I’ll regret that until the end of days.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but his control wavers, a single tear breaking loose and sliding down his face.

“You’re so desperate to believe the worst of yourself, but I don’t. I love you, and I’m sorry that you can’t find it in yourself to love me back anymore.”

Cas has said his piece, now he has to let Dean go. Because that’s what you do when someone stops loving you. You let them go. And you don’t feel noble, you don’t feel justified. It doesn’t feel like the right or the brave thing to do. But at the end of the day, it’s better to destroy one life than it is to destroy two.

He takes one last long, sweeping look at Dean, memorizing every new freckle and mark. His little frown, mouth half open.

“I never said I didn’t love you, Cas.”

“But you’re leaving.” Cas says, with a shrug. He didn’t say it, but it’s easy to see, written through all his actions like a scar in desert rock.

“’Cause you don’t want me to stay.” Dean can’t help the bitter little comment that slips out, curses himself for it, wishes he could snatch it back. That’s not how he wants to leave things. He flinches, tries to rescue it by following it with, “It’s for the best, I get that.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, frowns.

“Is that why you’re leaving, Dean? Because I don’t want you to stay?”

Dean shrugs. He wanted to avoid the bitterness, the confrontation that Cas is so clearly reaching for, but even though he’s been offered an out, he can’t stop digging at it, working the knife around the wound some more.

 “You’ve made yourself clear. I get it – you don’t want me around to fuck your life up any worse than I already have.”

Dean’s words hit Cas like a physical blow and he takes another look at Dean – the defeated slump of his shoulders, the tears he’s trying so hard not to let slip – and suddenly Cas understands what’s happening, the cross purposes they’ve been talking at.

This isn’t Dean saying so long and fuck you very much. This is Dean thinking he’s putting someone else’s feelings before his own and jumping ship. This is Dean holding a gun to his own head and squeezing the trigger to make someone else happy.

Because he thinks this is what Cas wants.

“Dean.”

“What, Cas?”

“Stay.”

“Cas, I…”

Cas puts one hand on Dean’s shoulder, transfers his weight and drops his cane. It clatters on the ground, loud and violent in the empty space. Cas uses his free hand to wipe away the moisture on Dean’s cheek.

“Please.” He asks, begs, lets his façade crumble, lets all the emotion that he’s been bottling up, because of pride, to make this easier on them both, all come rushing out.

And he’s fucking crying, and he’s shaking, and he’s fucking afraid that even after all of this Dean is going to turn around and leave anyway.

And Dean looks at him again, looks at him less like he’s a trap, and more like he’s a real person – like he’s the fucking love of his life asking him to stay, when that’s the only thing he wants to do in the world.

“Okay.” He says, and his voice shakes as he pulls Cas into a hug, fierce, but still careful of his damage. He buries his face in Cas’s neck and Cas can feel the tears pouring out now.

“I missed you, so much.” Cas says, between shuddering breaths, as he weaves his hand into Dean’s hair, grips him tight.

Dean laughs, and it’s pure relief.

“Me too, babe. Me too.”

*

 

Down in the basement, chained up and quelled, held captive by his fiercest enemies, Cahor is smiling.

He shifts his hands restlessly on the table, tests the length and the give of his chains. Satisfied, he reaches down into his lap.

With one hand he feels carefully down his left leg, searching with diminished, human senses until he finds a hole. It’s small, just big enough to push in his little finger. He works and worries at it, increase it until he can slip in his index finger and the tip of his thumb, pulls apart until there’s a jagged, three inch tear.

Cahor grits his teeth against the pain, digs a single, sharp thumbnail into the flesh of his thigh, and he starts to scratch.

**Author's Note:**

> *hides under the table* stop throwing things at me THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL OKAY but I ran out of time. Holding down a job, writing a weekly fic _and_ doing a 120K+ DCBB is hard, okay. I'M SORRY. 
> 
> Leave a comment, let us know what you think ;D 
> 
> We're also both on tumblr at [rabidbinbadger](http://rabidbinbadger.tumblr.com/) and [witchylana](http://witchylana.tumblr.com/) respectively. Don't hesitate to come say hi ;D 
> 
> And finally, I promise, a [rebloggable link](http://rabidbinbadger.tumblr.com/post/132832008831/2015-dcbb-title-chemical-author-rabidbinbadger) because I know self promo is tacky but we worked really hard on this and we're really proud of it ;D
> 
> ************************************************************************************
> 
> DECEMBER 2017 UPDATE: Sorry the sequel is taking so long, it has been an absolute omnishambles of lost notes and plot threads - to the point where I was starting to wonder if it was cursed. ANYWAY, good news. The plot notes are finalised, digitised and so backed up they can never be lost again, and at the time of writing this i'm 90k into the story. IT IS STILL COMING I HAVEN'T ABANDONED IT I PROMISE


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